JxHQ: Arkham Asylum: Tainted Love
by princessebee
Summary: Dr. Harleen Quinzel: Beautiful, smart, ambitious. But she never counted on The Joker. An all new and different take on the seduction and manipulation which led to her going insane and becoming Harley Quinn. Over 70,000 hits! Thanks all! COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

_**Author**__**'**__**s note: **__Hi all! Thanks for joining me in my own take on the manipulation and seduction of Dr. Harleen Quinzel by The Joker. It__'__s a popular story to tell and there__'__ve been a few really awesome takes on it. But I guess I always felt there was something missing that I wanted to see and so I decided to do my own version. For a long time I struggled against it and now I've finally relented._

_But it has been done before, so why should you read it?_

_It's quite different, for a start. This is told from both Harley AND Joker's perspectives, in alternating chapters._

_Also, the entire narrative will take place just before, within or after a session._

_The reason for this is I really wanted to focus on the psychology between them - what actually happened in their meetings to shape their relationship. Through depicting the events of the session, you are able to imagine for yourselves what went through Harley's mind once she got back home, or what Joker was planning from his cell. I think it's really important to remember the seduction took place within sessions. Sure, Harley would've built on everything in her own time, but their primary interaction happened during therapy. Doing it this way I hope will capture a sense of claustrophobia and segregation from the outside world I imagine would be felt in that little room together, and along with it the gradual detachment from reality._

_On that, I don't cover ever single session. A certain amount of time passes between each one. What I've tried to do, instead, is give you enough information and subtle clues in each chapter for you to piece together the progress and the sort of things happening between them as time passes._

_Finally, this is set in the mainstream universe._

_This fic will be updated twice a week until complete. Each chapter will be short, rarely more than 2000 words.  
_

_Enjoy! And if you do - please review! Gushing praise is welcomed, but constructive criticism is craved!  
_

**ooooo**

**PROLOGUE**

Arkham Asylum stands just outside the city of Gotham, off a lonely stretch of road.

Cars unwittingly speed up as they pass by its private road, leading up through several miles of fenced in parkland to its main gates.

There are very few visitors.

Inside, its barren halls echo with the screams and shrieks of its residents and even the brightest room seems overcome with shadows. The walls themselves seem to breathe, slowly draining the air until everyone inside becomes grey and drawn.

Sometimes a Doctor will stand in their office, throw their heads back and scream, secure in the knowledge no one will notice.

Most Doctors do not last more than three years and those who do no longer have any hope of leaving. The asylum becomes a part of them, its horrors etched into their faces. Sometimes the Doctors are as crazy as the inmates, hiding in plain sight.

The only ones who thrive are those inmates in the High Risk Ward. Known to the guards as "The Zoo".

Somewhere, deep in the Asylum's scarred belly, a small therapy room was waiting. The overhead light was a forty-watt bulb and the walls were a faded pale pink, an effort to provide a calming environment to those easily agitated. The only furniture in the room was a large leather chair, bolted to the ground, and a long leather couch, also bolted. Both pieces of furniture were unremarkable, standard in psychologists' offices everywhere, except that the couch had been adjusted with metal loops and fixtures for binding people down.

As the drilled in wall clock clicked over towards three o'clock pm, a couple of guards unlocked the cell of The Zoo's star attractions, commanding him to turn around and raise his arms to be fastened into his straitjacket.

Several floors above, a young Doctor paced nervously in her office, trying to quell the slight tremble in her hands, attempting to bolster her confidence by reminding herself how far she had come so quickly.

She left her office at precisely the moment the inmate in The Zoo was led from his cell. Their destination was the same.


	2. Session 01: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**ONE**

**Week One: _Session #01 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel_**

It had taken her six months to get here, and now that she was, Dr. Harleen Quinzel was terrified.

She watched the clock tick over to three o'clock pm and rubbed her damp palms on her tight black skirt.

She was about to get everything she had hoped and dreamed about for the last seven years. The culmination of all her hard work. The long hours of studying and research, of tutelage, of flirtation and seduction; of honing manipulation and persuasion to a fine art when essays and theses had not been enough.

She'd long ago learned you didn't get anywhere through hard work alone. Even in gymnastics, you had to have the right body type, perform the right sort of routines - tricky, but not too much so - behave and perform in exactly the way they wanted to see. Her chance at the Olympics had pretty much been taken from her the year she sustained an injury and had to take time off - she shot up three inches and developed breasts and hips. All of a sudden, tiny flaws in her performance were suddenly seen where they had gone unnoticed before and her coach said they had to be realistic about her chances.

She'd already decided by then a career as a professional athlete was not what lay ahead for her. But still, it had galled.

So she'd worked hard, but she hadn't _just _worked hard.

And here she was.

She wondered if it was too late to back out.

There was a knock at the door and over the thudding of her heart she spoke: "Come -" her voice was hoarse and she cleared her throat. "Enter."

And then it swung open and, hardly aware she did so, she rose to her feet as the guards led him in.

Of course she had seen images. Everyone had. His face was as famous as Elvis Presley's or President Kennedy's - or Hitler's. She had even caught, once or twice, snippets of video footage of him in action when he had taken over the airwaves as he had not infrequently done. She had even stood in front of his cell, drawn there like a moth to flame, that day he had locked eyes with hers and she had resolved she must be his Doctor.

But nothing could've prepared her for the reality of him right there, mere feet from where she stood.

He was magnetic. She'd known he must be, theoretically of course, but she still couldn't quite believe it, the sort of tug he seemed to give to the air so it was as if everything in the room was drawn into his orbit. He stood there, securely straitjacketed, standing a couple of inches over both guards and about half their width - and yet he seemed more solid than them, somehow. Stronger. They were both huge, muscular barrels of men and he was lean as a reed, but there was something about him that made him seem more dangerous, that he was the one to keep an eye on. Next to him, they seemed almost to shrink and fade. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

Maybe it was nothing more than the weight of his reputation.

He stood there, silently, as one prepared the couch and the other kept a firm grip on his arm. In real life, not through the dim haze of a television screen or a thick pane of glass, his colouring was incredibly vivid, almost dazzling. His hair was a lush, verdant shade of green, and tumbled over his forehead and down around his ears in loose curls. Longish, longer than it looked when it was styled. But he favoured old-fashioned styles and they required more hair to comb into them. His skin was white - _white_. Not fair, but white. White as greasepaint makeup. White as bleach. White as bone. And the lips - they really were scarlet. She wanted to reach into her jacket pocket, pull out her handkerchief and wipe them, so red were they. And he had a long, full, sensual mouth that at this very moment had a knowing little smirk playing about it and she realised only then that she was staring. Gaping, in fact, and abruptly she shut her mouth and lifted her eyes to his.

_Oh my God._ Those eyes. They were staggering. Brilliant and glittering, a deep and vivid shade of purple - if she didn't know better, she would've sworn he was wearing contacts. The irises swam in whites tinged with red. The pupils were pinned, tiny points of black. She would have to check what medication he was on - if it was causing that. But more than their colour and size, they were fiercely - ferociously - intelligent, an animal cunning deep within them. But not just that - hunger as well, for what she couldn't say, but hungry and eager and utterly gripping. And right down, deep beneath all of that, there was something else - something she recognised instinctively and yet had no words for.

She found she could not break the gaze, that he held her there as surely as if he had gripped her with his own hands. She had never looked into eyes like that before, and she began to feel faintly nauseous as she did so now, her head beginning to spin, her palms sweating once more. She wanted to run.

It was broken abruptly by the guards suddenly jerking him to the side.

"Lie down, Clown." One guard said brusquely and she lifted a trembling hand to check her hair, grateful they had not seemed to notice anything.

The Joker obeyed them silently and she suddenly fumbled for her note book, intending to write this down. She had read all about him, of course, and knew that he liked to goad the guards as they manhandled him.

"_Keep it together, Harleen_," she cautioned herself. "_Everything counts with this one. Don__'__t lose track._"

She sat down, her shaking knees grateful, and started making scribbled notes as the guards fastened him securely to the couch.

"All right, Dr. Quinzel," said one of the guards straightening up, a monstrous brute of a fellow named Ethan. "We'll be right outside. You've got your panic button if you need it, but he ain't going anywhere. Not even Houdini could get out of that rug."

And he cast a disdainful glance at The Joker, tinged with something vaguely challenging.

Joker continued to say nothing, just blinked calmly and fixed his eyes on Ethan. Ethan immediately got almost imperceptibly nervous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Don't got nothin' much smart to say today," he remarked, trying to make it sound like a triumph, betraying a tinge of uncertainty and Harleen realised suddenly Joker _was_ goading the guards, he was just using a slightly different method. He was such a deadly inmate, so unpredictable but also so ostentatious that any seeming restraint on his part was a cause for concern. She had, of course, read all of Doctor Arkham's notes, how he was constantly performing - viewing the world as his stage and himself as the star - and it struck her that this behaviour, too, was part of the role.

Feeling clever despite herself she nodded and thanked the guards, then hastily scribbled her notes down before realising the guards had left, clicking the door shut behind them and she was alone with her patient.


	3. Session 01: The Joker

**TWO**

**Week One: _Session #01 - The Joker_**

It took him a few moments to decide what to do.

He'd glimpsed Doctor Quinzel about the place, knew she was the hot new thing in the Asylum. Apparently, her grades were the best that had been seen in the state for the last five years and that she'd chosen to do her internship at Arkham Asylum was marvelled over. Dr. Arkham would be positively salivating and celebrating. Fresh meat. And how the Asylum loved fresh meat.

Still, despite all that, he was somewhat disbelieving she'd been assigned as his Doctor. Or perhaps he shouldn't be - anyone with her grades would be ambitious. Determined. Unlikely to let a little thing like youth and inexperience stand in her way. He rather liked that. He'd always had a fondness for ruthless ambition.

Nonetheless, he was strictly for the Big Leagues and he knew it.

They never sent anyone so young and fresh into him. No, it was always the ones who had fifteen to fifty years of experience behind them, all sorts of prestigious degrees and marvellous success stories to tell, revolutionary theories and methods and lots and lots of accolades. But that just made it all the more fun. Those types came in utterly smug in their conviction they were beyond manipulation, could see through all his games, were going to be the ones to make a breakthrough.

And it definitely gave him a greater sense of personal satisfaction to send them away a few months later, sobbing or shaking uncontrollably, swallowing pills by the handful, declaring sudden renewed faith in organised religion, or simply gazing and drooling as they were wheeled away. Yes, it wouldn't be half as gratifying if it wasn't a challenge.

So what sort of stimulation could a little thing like Doc Quinzel offer him?

They were desperate, that much was clear, and willing to try some unspoiled meat in the bid to make some progress with him. And maybe her amazing grades meant she had something new and tasty to offer him.

But as she sat there and smiled at him - a nervous, overbright smile, but also, marvellously, a _genuine_ smile - and said 'Good Morning Mister Joker, I'm Doctor Quinzel', all polite and proper like her palms weren't wet with sweat and her heart wasn't yammering in her chest - he pondered how in the hell they'd let her past the front gates, let alone granted her sessions with him. Bleached blonde hair, back in a prim and proper bun, but her face was too baby round and soft to make her look sophisticated. It was painfully evident her glasses were no more than reading ones, purchased at a chemist or in the supermarket. Her suit skirt was black, but it was too short and too tight - not overmuch, just _enough_. Just one inch above respectable. Just slinky enough to ripple only slightly over her hips. And, she was wearing a _tie. _Like she was in school uniform! It was all so desperately contrived it was positively obscene.

She wasn't just inexperienced - she might've been fresh made that very morning.

He knew she would've been warned he might not acknowledge her, might not talk to her. Or that he might start straight away tearing her apart, unpicking her psyche. She would've been warned off his charm, of easing up under a joke and falling for a fiction. They would've checked she could keep her breakfast down if he went into one of the more graphic descriptions of a little past gag.

So he decided to gamble.

He swivelled his neck to look at her, kept his expression serious and slightly stunned. "You're different." He said in a soft voice. "Why are you different?"

It threw her. It would not have thrown an older, more experienced doctor. But it threw her.

"W-what do you mean?" She queried him carefully and he twisted his head away.

"I can't tell you. I can't trus - I can't tell you." He said it so softly he knew it was barely audible. He felt her shift, heard the creak of her leather chair, knew she leant forward.

"You can trust me, Mister Joker. Maybe not right away, but I promise you with time..."

Suddenly he whipped his head back around, his 100-watt small splitting his face. "Say Doc, it sure is nice to walk in and see a pretty face for a change. Guess they're trying art therapy. When all else fails, give 'em something nice and soothing to look at, eh? Beauty tames the savage beast and all that. "

Be a jerk, but be a flattering jerk. She's expecting him to be a jerk, but probably not expecting flattery.

And she responded. She stiffened, a slight flush of colour speckled her cheeks, she shifted uncomfortably. But she rolled with it.

"Of course, I understand this must be disruptive for you, having a new Doctor all of a sudden, and knowing nothing at all about me." She smiled again, another horrendously open smile and he was struck by the desire to freeze it on her face, permanently, while a scream ripped from her throat. "So, let me tell you a little bit about myself."

Oh, ha ha ha. That old trick. Of course, a psychiatrist should never share personal information with their clients, but telling them a few general details to feign an exchange of trust, to establish a rapport, is considered a good way to break the ice. So wrapped up was she in the fact she'd never done this before, she forgot that he had.

"I graduated from Gotham University six months ago with a Doctorate in Psychiatry and immediately applied for internship here at Arkham." _blah blah blah. _"You might be wondering why -" _No. A girl who wears reading glasses to appear intellectual is hopelessly transparent._ "- Well, Gotham is my hometown and I care about it passionately and as a Doctor I have a vested interest in seeing its residents taken care of." _Liar, liar, panties on fire!_ "I'm here to hopefully rehabilitate and help those who desire it, contributing to a stronger, more unified Gotham for the future." _God, it made him feel sick. Not only was it idealism, it was _false _idealism. _

She paused to smile at him, then continued.

"I was a gymnast for most of my early life, before deciding to move into psychology. I guess it was gymnastics that taught me discipline and determination and could really be responsible for bringing me here today, in a way."

He smiled at her, revealing his teeth, and her smile froze a little.

"Were you a cheerleader, Doc?" His voice was playful, only slightly insinuating.

He saw her click the question over, wondering if answering it was revealing too much. She had no way of knowing how much she'd already revealed.

"Yes," she said finally. "I was Captain in my senior year and on the team at University. I considered it to be a good way of staying in shape and of maintaining a sense of team spirit, and contributing to my community."

He wanted to laugh. In fact, he felt a laugh rise up in his throat. He swallowed it down hard.

"And now you're here, cheering for the down and out of Gotham. That's touching, Doc."

She tilted her head to the side, unsure if he was mocking her or not. After a moment she said carefully:

"Thank you."

He held her gaze again and her lower lip slackened. She was frightened, but she was enthralled as well. He had that effect on most people. All the world's great leaders and revolutionaries did. You didn't get to where he was without having charisma in bucket loads, after all.

She suddenly hemmed, lowered her head, fumbled with her notebook, began to scribble then darted a glance at him. "Excuse me," she stammered. "I'm not trying to be rude - that is - I'm sure you're familiar with the process - now and then I'll pause to take notes - I hope, that is, please don't mistake it for rudeness. I'm very interested in what you have to say."

She was already stumbling! Maybe this would be too easy after all. He felt a vague sense of disappointment. But he smiled warmly at her.

"Hey, Doc, no problem! I've done this before. Relax, don't worry about it. Hey, I know you're pretty new to this whole thing. Let's just go at your pace, huh?"

She beamed, briefly, traitorously, before she snapped her expression back. "It's true I haven't been a Doctor for long," she said stiffly. "But I assure you I am very competent at what I do. " She paused, hesitated and he knew she wanted to tell him about her grades. "So please don't feel at all concerned." _And don__'__t try and get one over on me,_ she was adding silently. Inwardly, he smirked.

"I'm not," he assured her. "I'm not concerned at all." He really wasn't. "But I figured it must be kind of rough on you - here you are, fresh out of Uni and they throw you in with me! What kind of support are they offering you through this?"

She pressed her lips together. Flushed again slightly. She could not suppress the note of triumph when she next spoke:

"Actually, it was me who requested to see you." Let the last part of his question remain unanswered - smart of her.

He let his eyes widen slightly. Let himself seem impressed. "Really, Doc? Little old me? I'm flattered. And wow, you must be good if they agreed. "

A smile twitched about her mouth but a second later she narrowed her eyes at him. "I have studied your files, of course. So I am feeling somewhat curious as to why you're being so accommodating with me. You - well, have a reputation for not making things easy for your Doctors."

He smiled at her with every drop of charm he had in him, stretched and arched his back a little, flexed his toes. If his arms had been free, he would've folded them behind his head.

"I guess I'm just in a good mood today." He said, and they regarded each other for several long moments.

That was how it began.


	4. Session 05: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**THREE**

**Week Three: _Session #05 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel_**

It was their fifth session.

She was seeing him twice a week and they were now at the start of the third week. She was already utterly exhausted and nothing much had really happened. It was simply the process of remaining alert, aware of his every action and move - and the vortex of his personality. She knew, of course, she couldn't expect too much this early in the game and tried to quell her impatience. After every session she went back to her office and typed up detailed notes of their every interaction - every thing he had said and every gesture he had made. It would all be compelling material for her book. The whole world would be fascinated by his slightest movement.

After that, she had a meeting with Doctor Leland, to debrief on the session. Joan was terribly anxious about the whole situation, but she'd been overruled by Doctor Arkham. As Harleen's direct supervisor, however, she'd insisted on these sessions. That way Harleen had the opportunity to discuss anything disturbing or strange that had happened with Joker and also to talk about her own anxieties and concerns.

They were supposed to be a relief for Harleen; instead they just made her all the more anxious. She couldn't, of course, betray to Joan any sort of self-doubt or uncertainty, couldn't go into detail about the sessions. Because what if she revealed she'd done something wrong - something horribly wrong - said too much or given him an opening - and then Joan decided she couldn't handle it and took him away from her?

No, not now when she was so close. By the end of the year, she'd decided, she would have the manuscript typed up. It wouldn't be hard to find a publisher. Then finally, finally, the world would look at her and take her seriously.

It was a coup, she knew. The Joker. The psychopath psychologists the world over had wet dreams about. He defied most definitions, exhibiting the traits of many, refusing to fit neatly into any particular one. His activities had been the extremity of anti-social, and yet he seemed to have no real motive for them, apart from his fixation on Batman. Unlike many of the rogues in the Asylum, Joker displayed no particular convictions. He had no boundaries, no limits. Nothing was considered too heinous or outrageous for him and he insisted on doing everything with a theatrical flair.

And everyone was afraid of him. Not just the Doctors, and the Guards and the citizens of Gotham. But the other Rogues, as well. No one crossed The Joker.

And she was his Doctor.

She was going to be _so famous._

But she hadn't counted on the toll it would take on her. Come Fridays she no longer had the energy to meet her old Uni buddies for drinks, but would instead crawl home and collapse into bed, spending the weekend vegging in front of the TV, or at the cinemas, or taking slow, long walks in the park, letting her mind blank out.

And still nothing had really happened.

He was so charismatic. The guards led him in now, restrained as always, smiling at her. She stood to greet him, still unable to tear her eyes away.

"Good morning, Mister Joker," she said, friendly but professional.

"What's up, Doc?" He replied lazily.

"I'm doing well today. How about yourself?"

"A little tied up, but maybe that's a good thing." He chuckled as the guards strapped him down. "I don't know if I could _restrain_ myself around you otherwise." He said it casually, his eyes rolled to the ceiling, and she knew he hadn't said it for her benefit. Sure enough, Ethan responded as Joker expected he would.

"Watch your mouth around the Doctor, Clown." He snarled, shoving the butt of his club under Joker's chin. "You better think twice about whatever it is going through that twisted skull of yours."

"Thank you, Ethan," Harleen said firmly. "But I would rather my patient not be intimidated here. This room is a safe haven. I assure you Mister Joker is always exceedingly polite during our sessions."

And she gave The Joker a little smile, as though they were in conspiracy. But it was true, apart from his first remarks about her looks, he'd always behaved himself.

Ethan nodded gruffly, gave The Joker a final glare and he and his partner left the room.

Once the door was shut, she turned to her patient, who was chuckling to himself.

"They would probably go easier on you if you didn't provoke them."

He grinned rakishly. "It wouldn't stop me killing them. And they know it."

She knew he was a killer, but it gave her a jolt to hear him refer to it so glibly. "Shall we talk about that?"

He tittered. "I dunno, Doc. Shall we?"

She tried another tack. "Why do you like to provoke them?"

He shrugged. "They're so grim. Haven't you noticed? How can I resist? Every good comedian needs his straight man, and since I don't get to play with mine in here I have to improvise."

She felt slightly breathless. It was the first reference to Batman he'd made yet. While she paused to find a way to pursue the matter, Joker continued:

"But let me ask _you_ something. Doc. I'm a very bad man, but you're not afraid of me - oh, I dunno - _asserting_ myself over you?" He spoke quietly, with just a hint of insinuation, turning his eyes to her with one brow raised.

She felt a warm, hot blush flood her cheeks. She had not thought of him in those terms, but he was so horribly charismatic. It still made her reel, even after two weeks, just how disarming he could be, and how captivating. Not to mention how dangerous.

"No," She said, recovering herself and hoping the blush was not visible in the dim lit room. "Sex crimes have never been a part of your MO. The closest you've come was the crime you enacted against Barbara Gordon, the Commissioner's daughter." She hoped that might lead into discussion of Batman, or at least of his criminal inclinations.

He did not take the bait.

"Maybe I just need to find the right girl." He said darkly, staring at her with a frightening hunger.

She felt her mouth go dry, her heart rate pick up. _Oh God I__'__m alone in here with a complete madman_, the voice of reality thundered in her ears.

Then suddenly Joker's expression opened and he smiled playfully, laughed at her. "Relax, Doc! I'm just kidding!" His voice was light and friendly, and his laughter was delighted as sheer relief flooded through her. Despite herself she laughed a little, grateful.

"You should've seen your face!" He chuckled, "I really had you going then! Ha ha ha!"

She found it difficult to reconcile this playful, laughing man with the darkly glowering predator of a moment before. But he seemed to evoke every personality with absolute authenticity and he was harmless now. So it was easiest to believe that.

"But seriously, Doc," He continued. "You're right. I've never bothered with the old rape and ravage. It's not where my interest lies."

She cleared her throat, scribbled a few notes.

"Do you consider such crimes beneath you?"

He raised an eyebrow again, swivelling his head to look at her.

"Interesting choice of words, Doc." He observed. "Why do men rape women?"

She shrugged. "To assert dominance. To establish power." It felt a little odd, to discuss such an intimate topic with him. He just seemed so… _knowing. _Her ears were burning a little.

"So it stands to reason a rapist feels disempowered generally - emasculated. Inadequate." He seemed to relish the words, to roll them on his tongue. She nodded sharply.

"Yes, there's generally an underlying motive along those lines. Resentment of women and the desire they evoke, feeling enslaved to it, believing themselves to be unfairly rejected and so they commit rape to counteract those feelings."

He smiled at her, dazzling and bright. "Do I strike you as the sort of guy who feels inadequate in any way, Doc?"

She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again when she realised she wasn't sure what to say. Joker seemed content to continue and she realised that she should be taking notes, and began scribbling frantically.

"How boring. How common. Nothing challenging about it. Nothing intriguing. I once seduced a Dominatrix you know, but not just one of those ones who flings whips around and yells at people. This woman hadn't let anyone touch her in _years_. She controlled her 'slaves'" - he sneered the word - "Absolutely. They couldn't look at her, or even stand up next to her. She used them as furniture - one to sit on, one to rest her feet on!" He laughed at the memory. "She sat there in that club with her nose in the air, not looking at anyone. You had to ask permission to speak to her, even. And woe betide anyone who so much as brushed against the hem of her dress. By the end of the night I had her naked and begging for more. She submitted to me, but I didn't make her. And afterwards, when she realised what she'd done - heh heh. _That_ was interesting."

Harleen couldn't believe it! Completely unexpectedly he was giving her information - real information about the things he did when free - when he wasn't committing one of his elaborate crimes. Her pen scratched as she tried to keep up. He'd fallen silent and she could feel his eyes on her, but she just had to finish this sentence -

"Have you ever been raped, Doc?"

Ink spattered. Her head whipped up. His voice had been quiet, innocuous and now he was staring at her with one eyebrow curiously raised, lips twisted in a small smile.

"W-what?" She felt suddenly nauseous. Had he really just - but - "I beg your pardon?" She said indignantly. He shrugged, pressed his lips together, then grinned nastily.

"A pretty girl like you. I'm sure you've made a few guys want to."

The sense of sick violation was overwhelming. She rose to her feet, her notebook and pen falling to the floor.

"This session is finished." She gasped, and pressed the buzzer for the guards.

He said nothing more as they unstrapped him and she retrieved her notes from the floor, hoping the guards would not notice the way her hands were trembling. After they had left, she counted to ten, then hurried to the nearest bathroom, where she locked herself in a stall and bust into tears.

Joan wanted to know why the session had finished early. Harleen lied and said Joker had been unresponsive and distant. She'd dried her eyes and reapplied her makeup by then. When Joan asked if everything was all right, Harleen smiled brightly.

"Yes. Everything is absolutely fine."

--

_No, I'm not about to take the angle Harley's ever been raped. Think about it. If someone just popped out with that question to you, how would you feel? Especially if they were a stranger and a psychotic killer to boot. _


	5. Session 06: The Joker

**FOUR**

**Week Three: **_**Session 06 - The Joker**_

"I want to apologise." He said to her.

Doctor Quinzel regarded him calmly, her expression absolutely implacable. "What for?" She said coolly.

"For my unforgivable behaviour on Tuesday. It was wrong of me to say those things to you."

He wondered inwardly how long it would be before he could get her smiling again. Her smile was so hopelessly earnest. So real.

She raised an eyebrow at him. She tilted her head a little. She seemed thrown.

"You understand the remarks you made were inappropriate?" She queried.

"After you reacted the way you did." He said quietly, gazing down at his straitjacketed stomach. "I realised. Not before. It was just that everything had been going so well between us, I guess I assumed we had a level of intimacy we didn't. When I saw how upset you got, I realised it was wrong. And then I thought you might not want to be my doctor anymore. And we'd been getting along so well. So. I apologise."

She hadn't expected this. He could see it in the way she lifted her chin, the way her eyes seemed to quiver. She had wanted to stay resolute, but his apology had caused her to waver.

"Well, I very much appreciate you saying so and of course I accept your apology." She said finally. "And I assure you that I'm not about to give up on you so easily."

He gave her a sheepish grin, his sweetest and most boyish smile, pleased that his hair was tousled over his forehead, no doubt adding to the effect.

"Thanks, Doc. I appreciate that more than I can say."

Almost there. A tiny little smile flickered on her pretty red lips for a moment and she nodded to him. How easy it was to draw from her - he liked that. "I understand you've had a chequered history with your Doctors. So many have approached you as nothing more than a social experiment."

If he had not been restrained he would've thrown himself across the room at her. The little hypocrite! He wanted to laugh and kick her, he wanted to make her cry. He'd make her admit she was here for nothing more than glory and then he'd give her glory by adding her as yet another name in his long list of victims. _Not everyone can say they__'__ve been offed by me, Doc, _he'd whisper as her last breath left her mouth. _Here__'__s your page in the history books. Or your footnote, at least._

But instead he pressed his chin to his chest, and lowered his eyes. "Something like that." He said with just the right touch of remorse. Then he sighed, rolled his eyes up to the ceiling above. "The thing is," He continued and heard her shift, quickly flip open her notebook and swallowed another laugh. "The other day was a bad one for me. It was… it was a special day. An anniversary. But the person I share it with didn't come to see me."

She shifted again. He resisted the urge to look at her. He already knew her expression would be hopelessly keen.

"Batman?" she queried tentatively.

He wriggled petulantly on the couch. "I don't wanna talk about it." He mumbled. She pushed on gently.

"You were - hurt? That he forgot?"

He let a little smile flicker up his mouth.

"He didn't forget, Doc. He remembered. Trust me, he remembered."

He turned his head to her once more and grinned.

"Have you ever seen the film _Singin in the Rain_?"

She blinked, confused by the subject change. But she rolled with it. "No, I haven't."

He groaned, let his head thump against the back of the couch. "You're kidding, right? Great film. One of the greats. Get it out this weekend. We need to have more to talk about."

She paused. He knew that must be a quandary for her. Caught between wanting to direct the conversation back to Batman and being simply grateful he was willing to talk to her - about anything. After all one Doctor he'd had - Doctor - Doctor Phillips - had seen him twice a week for two months. Joker had never said a single word in all that time. Not. One. Doctor Phillips had ended up retiring and going to work relief aid in Africa.

"Okay," She agreed. "I will." And scribbled in her notebook. He knew precisely what she was writing - that watching the film would allow her to establish further rapport, give them more commonality. Then it could only be a matter of time before he really started talking to her.

_Doctor Quinzel, Doctor Quinzel_, he sang inwardly, _what a fun little diversion you're turning out to be. _

He'd thought the rape gag might've scared her off, but she'd proven to be tougher than that, and he was impressed. Yes, he was. She couldn't be more than twenty-six, but she was a tough little cookie. Not as tough as she thought she was, but tough all the same. He resolved to take a slightly more delicate hand with her from here on in. Who knew what he was going to turn up.

She paused when she finished scribbling, clearly wondering how to move the conversation forward without dwelling on the subject of movies. She reached a decision.

"I wanted to ask you about your interest in chemistry, if that's all right with you." She said and he shrugged.

"I'm not going anywhere for another -" He glanced at the wall clock. " - forty five minutes." And smiled toothily at her. She smiled back and he revelled. A _very_ pretty smile indeed. Oh, how he'd love to peel it off her face…

"You're a highly intelligent man, as I'm sure you're aware," She began and he chuckled.

"Flattery won't get you everywhere, Doc."

She smiled a little. "Just a statement of facts. Your IQ has been rated at 185." It was kinda cute, the way she'd memorised all these facts about him. "And you've been particularly noted for having aptitude in chemistry, genetics, nuclear engineering, as well as - "

"Doc," He interrupted her gently. "I'm aware of what I can do."

She flushed. "Sorry," She stammered, and then caught herself, squaring her shoulders. Ah, so cute! So earnest not to show any weakness. "I was wondering if you'd had any formal training you might be able to tell me about."

He was irritated. Was she even trying? That was about as subtle as if she had sat down, leaned back in her chair, steepled her fingers together and said: _"So, Joker. Tell me about your childhood."_

If he could've, he would've waggled a finger at her. Instead he just grinned with his lips press tight shut and looked at her from beneath his brows. "Ah, ah, ah, Dear Doctor. We don't play the game that way. Let me tell you about me and chemistry. What did you specialise in, when you were a gymnast?"

Without thinking, she answered: "Uneven bars."

He nodded. "I'd expect no less. Well, imagine you're on the mat and before you there are the bars. Even before you jump and catch them, you know exactly how they're going to feel beneath your calloused palms, how the weight of your body will catch, how you will swing it upwards and around. How when you are right on top of one bar you will hover, defying gravity, in a perfect handstand, let go and twist around, grab the bar again and go back the other way. These are not normal things to do with the human body but to you they are as natural as breathing. You will be aware of every muscle flexing and stretching, urging you forward, and around. You will be completely in touch with the entire posture and arrangement of your body, from your pointed toes to your gripping fingers. You will feel the wind whip and whistle as you flip, twist in the air and catch the other bars. What you do defies logic, but you do it anyway. It's what you've always done. You will revel in the strength of your young, beautiful body and the hard-won skill you display, but in those moments it will seem effortless, as though you were simply born to do it. Finally, you will let go for the last time and flip over in the air, your feet will hit the mat, together - what's the expression - 'stuck', is it? And supporting you perfectly. And you will lift your arms above your head and know the exhilaration of triumph and fleeting perfection." She was staring at him, lips slightly agape, a slightly dreamy look on her face. He'd taken her back, to those moments of glory.

"That's what it's like with me and chemistry. Perhaps I have studied, perhaps I have not, perhaps I have sweated and strained and poured over books and experiments for long, endless hours. It matters not. When I sit down with my chemicals and formulas and potions I already know how they will unfold. The smell of them, the feel of glass beneath my hands, the brightness of their colours. I mix them and process them and they take shape beneath my ministrations. Whatever I have done to get there, in that moment all is instinctive perfection. I know how they will react, I know what will bubble, what will boil and what will froth, I know the effects they will have on each other and I know the concoctions they will form. It's not something I do, it's part of me. And the final moment, the crowning glory, my 'stuck landing' is watching them in action, seeing them take hold exactly as I knew they would."

He blinked his glittering eyes and levelled them on Doctor Quinzel's baby blues. She hadn't seemed to realise the implication in his final words. Her pen was hanging limply in one hand. He flickered his eyes down to it. "Maybe you wanna write this all down, Doc." And she started, came to and began hastily scribbling, carefully not looking at him.

He watched her with a smile for a few moments and then spoke:

"Hey Doc," He said casually. "I'm just curious - why didn't you say I should use your psychology skills as an example instead of your gymnastic ones?"

Her head whipped up again, but he kept his expression perfectly disingenuous. Mild curiosity, nothing more. She pushed back a nonexistent lock of hair.

"I - well - I didn't - think of it." She said. "You suggested it. I didn't realise what you were using it for." A more experienced psychologist would've turned the question back to him. Poor Doctor Quinzel. She didn't really stand a chance.

"Eh." He flexed his toes, scratched an ankle with his toes. "Just curious."

But he'd made her think.

_--_

_Would just like to take a moment to thank my unsigned reviewers. I would email you all personally to say thank you, but I can't! Thanks for taking the time to leave me a review, kay-sama and laserlass. And, of course, thank you to all my signed reviewers too! __I hope you all continue to enjoy!_


	6. Session 11: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**FIVE**

**Week Six: **_**Session 11 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

The clock ticked steadily.

He lay on the couch, looking at the ceiling and smiling.

She sat in her chair, gazing at him steadily with a concerned crease between her eyebrows.

He chuckled, tapped his feet together, continued to not acknowledge her.

She waited.

She knew he could out-wait her. She pondered what to do. Should she end the session early? It was a passive way of indicating that certain behaviour had not been acceptable. A passive-aggressive way, perhaps. And he would not regard it as a punishment.

"Would you like to explain your actions to me?" The words sprung from her mouth before she had thought them through.

In response he chuckled again, then swivelled his head to face her, eyes gleaming.

"Mommy, I've been a very bad boy!" He grinned, and chortled.

Her heart began to pound and she clenched her fists in her lap. She knew she should've expected this, but somehow she hadn't. Not after he'd been - so - so polite. Charming. It had - it had almost made her forget - exactly who he was.

She wasn't going to make that mistake again.

"It's a shame." She said, choosing her words carefully. "Just last week we had a meeting about reinstating your privileges."

He sneered. "Maybe I knew that. Maybe that's why I did it."

She blinked. "You don't enjoy being able to spend time in the common room? The dining room?"

"Puh-leeeeze!" Joker stuck out his tongue and screwed up his face. "You think I like having to rub elbows with the hoi polloi? That great, sweaty, unwashed mass of crushing mediocrity?"

He'd given her an opening and she leapt on it. "You don't enjoy having an audience?"

He grinned sharkily, raised an eyebrow and glanced sideways at her. "I've always got an audience, Doc."

"But surely if they're as common as you claim, they would be easily entertained?"

She didn't think that one through either. His expression suddenly changed into a mask of fury and he lunged up against the straps holding him down. She started back in her chair.

"What?" He spat furiously, "You think I cater for the _common man_? Are you suggesting my genius is nothing more than bread and circuses for the masses? Are you oblivious to the finesse of my performances or are you just genuinely that stupid?" His eyes were flashing, as though some erratic signal was firing inside them, but he was constrained by the straps, unable to get more than his head and shoulders off the couch.

Without even being aware of it, she had begun to rise off her chair, suddenly shaking, her mouth dry. The sight of him enraged, that strange angular face contorted with anger, was like something out of Dante's Inferno. The transformation had been so sudden, and absolute, that it had shaken her to her very core.

"I - I just meant -" she floundered, "- That - that it would allow you to - to not have to try very hard."

He fumed, his eyes bulged and he ground his teeth in an almost cartoonish-grimace, striving up against the straps and to her horror, stretched them a little further, bringing more of his body off the couch.

"You - you -" He sputtered. "Little _nincompoop_! You genuinely believe I could ever be content to _pander_ - to take the easy way out?"

With a numb sort of disbelief, she had backed up against the wall and watched as he ground his heels into the couch, then began to push up, and she saw that he was _wiggling his body out from beneath the straps_, his head now several inches above the end of the couch.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God, I'm going to die_, the thought shrieked around her head and she suddenly cried out:

"I'm sorry!"

Instantly The Joker's rage dispersed and he sank back down onto the couch, his face relaxing into an easy smile.

"You're forgiven, Doc." He said easily and chuckled again, wiggling to make himself more comfortable beneath his restraints.

In her fear, she had completely forgotten the panic button. Her hand flew to it now in her pocket, and she felt its hard outline as she tentatively came forward across the room, heading back towards her chair. The Joker continued to grin pleasantly at her, unrecognisable as the furious lunatic of only moments before, except for the sweat that beaded his forehead.

She did not take her eyes off him as she came up in line with her chair, one hand fumbling out to touch the back of it, sliding down onto the seat, still trembling. Her muscles spasmed with little shocks, and her heart hammered in her ears.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

She started and gasped loudly, which made The Joker start giggling.

"Co - come in." She said, flustered, smoothing back her hair.

The door opened and Ethan stuck his head in, peering curiously at her.

"Everything okay, Doctor? We thought we heard you cry out."

On the couch, Joker flexed his toes and leered at the ceiling. Her mind raced. She could say he had gotten enraged, began to slide out of the restraints. The session would end, he'd be taken back to his cell. Ethan and Ross would probably be rough with him. Next time the restraints would be more confining. He probably expected her to do just that. After all he had - well, no actually. He _hadn't_ threatened her. He hadn't made any overtures of violence to her at all, he'd simply gotten angry because - because _she'd_ insulted his - his what? Artistic integrity?

"Everything's fine." She heard herself say in a surprisingly bright voice. "We were just doing some vocal exercises. Nothing to be alarmed about. But thank you for paying such close attention." She attempted a quick smile at The Joker. Perhaps this would engender a level of trust - show Joker they were on the same side.

Ethan nodded uncertainly, cast a suspicious look at The Joker who smiled winningly at him, then reluctantly exited.

As the door clicked, Joker swivelled his head to her. "Well." He said cheekily.

She composed herself, arranged her notebook on her lap, then looked at him. "I am sorry for any perceived insult, Mister Joker. It was unintentional."

"And I didn't mean to scare you, Doctor." He rejoined. "Or maybe I did, but that was in the moment. Just don't be so thoughtless in future, kay?" His voice was perfectly pleasant and breezy, nonetheless she felt a thrill of fear course through her. Still - he referred to the future. Which would indicate a willingness to work with her.

Her fingers left damp marks on the pages as she flipped through her notebook and she realised one leg was violently shaking, the muscles completely tensed. She relaxed them, cleared her throat.

"Why did you kill those guards?" She got straight to the point.

He shrugged, turned his head from side to side.

"Because they annoyed me. Because I was bored. Because it was funny. Because they gave me an opening. Because I wanted to. Take your pick, Doc. It could be any of them. It could be all."

She stared at him blankly. Two men were dead and another would need plastic surgery on his face, to say nothing of the trauma he'd sustained. She'd arrived that morning to find out about it, Doctor Arkham frantically trying to deal with the fallout and keep it away from media and public attention while the nurses and guards seemed to almost wearily go about cleaning the asylum up.

She knew she was dealing with killers - and that her number one patient was one of the most ruthless of them all - but somehow - for some reason - it just hadn't ever seemed _real. _How could it be, when it was black text on printed page, a newsreel read out by a pretty face?

"Maybe the question you should be asking me, Doc," The Joker was speaking softly from the couch. "Is why I was alone in an unused room with three guards?"

She started. "What are you suggesting?"

He blinked, turned his head slowly to hers. "What do you want to hear, Doc? Big men don't like it when scrawny guys scare them."

"Are you saying they were -" And she fumbled over the words, "- hurting you? Attacking you?"

He made a vaguely amused little noise, turned his head back to the ceiling.

"Ask me no secrets, Doctor Quinzel." The words slipped out through his teeth and she stared at him.

Of course, she had read about things like this. Doctors and guards taking advantage of their patients - abusing them, psychologically and physically, keeping them in appalling conditions, molesting them - but could such a thing happen at Arkham? It was such a dreary, dark place with its shadowy history and infamous inmates. But surely - all the employees - were doing the right thing?

"Do you - need to see a Doctor?" She probed him gently and his smile widened.

"Isn't that what I'm doing right now?" He pushed back playfully and she clarified:

"I mean, a physical Doctor."

"I think I had enough physical therapy last night to keep me limber." He chuckled wickedly and she balled her fists in her lap.

"You have a right to medical attention." She pointed out and he shifted restlessly on the couch.

"I also have a right to refuse." He rejoined.

"But you require it?"

And he laughed, a light little sound that went scattering about the small, close room.

"Doc, you do make me smile."

--

_Your reviews, feedback and concrit are appreciated! Let me know what you think about how things are going! mwah!_


	7. Session 13: The Joker

**SIX**

**Week Seven: **_**Session 13 - The Joker**_

"Oh my God!" Doctor Quinzel shrieked, her hand flying up to her mouth in horror.

He leered drunkenly at her from beneath his bruises and swollen face.

"What happened?"

Doctor Quinzel, sweet as honey, sweet as pie. She was really horrified, her big baby blues were all wide and gaping, her attitude one of perfect distress.

"Guess it's what they call _quid pro quo_, eh Doc?"

"He did it to himself, Doctor Quinzel," Ethan said brusquely. "All to himself." And The Joker thanked him silently. _Guilty by your own admission, Ethers. Should've said nothing._

And sure enough, Doctor Quinzel sat up straight in her chair and glared at the guards. "I find it very difficult to believe anyone would do such a thing to themselves, Ethan."

Ethan scowled, turned around to leave, throwing over his shoulder as he did so: "You wouldn't find it so hard to believe if you'd seen what he did to Travers and Jason, Doctor Quinzel." And Joker's heart did a merry leap. _And you just drove the nail home. Bravo, Ethan, m'boy!_

Doctor Quinzel was staring indignantly after the guards and then she was standing up, heading for the phone set into the wall.

"What are you doing, Doc?" He queried her, internally gleeful over her righteous indignation.

"I'm calling Doctor Arkham. This is completely unacceptable."

"No, don't!" And she paused at the note of panic in his voice. "Don't, Doc. It'll just make it harder for me. He already knows." He felt wonderfully pleased with how genuine he sounded, like he understood what concern felt like.

She whirled around and gasped. "What? He's allowed this to happen?"

Joker shrugged and squinted at her through his swollen eye. "It happens here a lot, Doc. Everyone tends to turn a blind eye. I guess they figure the guards need to work out their frustration somehow. We tend to get under their skin. Heh."

She was outraged, sitting back down in her chair. "That's not acceptable. There's no excuse."

"Well," Joker pointed out gently. "I did kill a couple of their buddies."

"That's another matter. You're not -" And she stopped. _Responsible_, he added silently. She was such a scream!

She was looking down at the floor, her brow furrowed in thought, a cute little _moue_ on her mouth.

He clucked his tongue. "Didn't you know, Doc? You hadn't heard about it?"

She glanced up at him. "No." She said. "I would never have thought -"

"Asylums have lots of dirty secrets below the surface once you start scratching away. Do they keep a lot from you?"

She started a little and flickered her gaze away and he had his answer. A young intern, with her grades, already seeing him as her patient - they'd be putting her through the hard yards. Ah, human jealousy and human ego, such a delicious combination.

The truth was, the guards _had_ roughed him up a little. Not a lot - they didn't want to be near him for too long and they sure didn't want to incur his wrath - but they'd given him a few kicks. Of course, those thugs knew how to hit so they wouldn't cause bruises. He'd taken care of the rest back in his cell, up against his sink, the plexiglass door, the stone walls. The resulting effect would be enough to melt dear little Doc Quinn's soft and gooshy little heart. As soon as she'd gotten all concerned over his little implications the day after he'd put those guards to rest, he'd seen just how easily compassion could be drawn from her.

And what better way to soften the full impact of bloody murder?

"There was another Doctor, before you." He said quietly, breaking the silence. "Quite idealistic, she was, not as tuned in as you," Heh heh! He could be so bad! "She didn't like the guards' idea of fun either and complained about it long and loudly to good old Doctor Arkham. She didn't last too long. Last I heard, she's doing couples counselling in suburbia."

"They fired her for complaining?" Doctor Quinzel couldn't quite keep the note of shocked indignation from her voice, then quickly recovered herself. "Have you had a doctor attend you?"

"I've been patched all up, Doctor, don't worry your pretty head. Nothing a little antiseptic and a stick of plaster couldn't handle. Humpty, eat your heart out."

"Would you like to finish early today? I imagine you might be in some pain."

Pain. Pain was something he'd become very intimate with. Some days, it was like an old friend come to visit. Other days, he barely noticed it.

"You're so nice, Doc." And he flashed back to their first meeting, almost smiled, then lowered his voice a little, staring down towards his toes. "You're so… different."

He heard her shift. Knew she remembered it too. And it seemed to help her make a decision.

"I'll got to Doctor Arkham if you want me to." She said firmly and he turned to look at her, allowing a touched smile to run up his face.

"Doc, that's so - but no. No I couldn't let you risk your career like that. Not for me. Really, I deserved it."

She pressed her lips together, stared at him earnestly. "That's not the way our system works."

_Once it did,_ he thought to himself, _What happened to those good old days? Then again, it's blazed a trail for me to stroll in comfort...  
_

But he said nothing, just wiggled a little, blinked up at the ceiling.

"All right." She said finally. "For now I won't say anything. But please understand that if at any time you need to talk about something, or want to bring an incident to my attention, you should feel completely free to do so."

He grinned at her boyishly. "Thanks, Doc. It feels real good to hear you say that."

He pondered the games he and Doctor Quinzel were playing and wondered if she knew they were playing them. An ambitious little thing like that was never going to risk her career for a stinker like him, but she'd thought it would win his trust to say she would - knowing all the while he would insist that she not. They were playing their parts perfectly, reciting the lines down to the very last word.

Or maybe she didn't know. Maybe she told herself she meant it. Maybe she really believed it.

One of these days he was going to have to peel Doctor Quinzel's crown off and go poking about in that lovely tender brain of hers, and find out.

--

_So, I see lots of people reading but very few commenting. What's up? Love it, loathe it, I don't mind - but your feedback is appreciated!_


	8. Session 17: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**SEVEN**

**Week Nine:**_** Session 17 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

She was wondering if she'd been a fool for trusting The Joker.

He was a trickster, after all. He'd fooled plenty of others in the past. It was entirely possible. Even - probable?

The clock ticked toward three. She glanced at it then back down at her notes.

_Photographs in patient__'__s file include shots from various times patient has been returned to the asylum after being apprehended by __'__The Batman__'__. These photos depict the patient with numerous physical injuries, including broken limbs, severe lacerations and burns and facial injuries clearly administered with fists or weapons. The Batman__'__s influence on the guards most be acknowledged. Is it possible the guards see this sort of treatment from the vigilante and feel justified in behaving in the same manner? This same behaviour would be deemed anti-social from the patient himself, even when enacted in self-defence._

She pondered her words. She'd written them without thinking them quite through and now she was trying to unravel exactly what she was feeling.

Prejudice. That's what it was. Because of The Joker's reputation - his past crimes and behaviour - everyone was predisposed to believe it impossible he could ever be vulnerable or subjected to attack, and that any such claims on his part would be lies.

Well - she had assumed it herself, when she'd got the news of those murdered guards. Joker himself had pointed that out - that no one was questioning _why_ those guards had taken Joker to a seldom-used room of the Asylum.

She tapped her notebook thoughtfully with the end of her pen. If he was telling the truth, then going to Dr. Arkham would be risky - she could end up being taken off Joker's case. Even fired. And she hadn't yet gotten to the really deep stuff for her book yet. As distasteful as she found the violence and brutality going on behind closed doors, she'd come too far to risk it all now. Besides, it might be a more fitting punishment to _expose_ Arkham in her book - the publicity would doubtless be far more effective than her simply complaining to the head and losing her job.

And Joker… he hadn't wanted her to risk her career. Did he then feel - safe with her? It would make sense - how could Joker trust any of his doctors, if he'd been subjected to violence and indifference? No wonder no one had made any progress with him. Yes, the things he had done were awful, but he was _ill. _

The door opened and the guards entered, escorting the Clown Prince in with them. She looked up and smiled at her patient, who pushed his lips together and began a lively, melodic whistle, staring up towards the ceiling. She thought she recognised the tune, but from where she couldn't say - it was an old-fashioned sort of melody. It made her want to hum along.

"I'm pleased to see you're looking much better," she said when the guards had left, making her smile especially bright. The swelling had gone down and the bruises had faded to a sickly greyish-yellow. His quick recovery from injury had often been marvelled over in the past.

"I'm absolutely peachy keen, Doc." He grinned charmingly at her and she marvelled over the way he said the words. He made it sound saturated with meaning, as though those simple words were so much more interesting than they seemed.

She scribbled a note or two: _Patient seems to enjoy adding theatrical depth to casual conversation_, paused over the words, then looked up at Joker. His eyes were fixed coolly on her, the corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile, one eyebrow just a little quirked. He called to mind James Dean, reclining back as though saying: 'Here I am. Want to make something of it?' But there was also just the slightest touch of playfulness to it.

"I've been thinking about our last few sessions." She stated sombrely and Joker widened his eyes theatrically.

"You don't say! Is this a breakthrough?" He enquired with disingenuous awe.

She fought against the grin that sprang up.

"I didn't mean it quite like that and you know it, Mister!" She drew up short. She'd been playing along, her voice mock-scolding. That wasn't appropriate - was it? Couldn't she share a laugh with her patient?

He waggled his brows and bared his teeth in a playful grin.

"But it seemed a moment of such great import!" He continued protestingly, "I thought for a moment you were about to tell me you'd done some actual critical reflection rather than just referring to a text book like the rest of the poor saps here!"

She snorted a little, blushed at the unladylike noise and coughed. She couldn't condone any ridiculing of her colleagues.

"I simply meant," She said primly, redirecting the conversation, "That I had been reflecting on the things we'd been discussing and how similar occurences in the past might've affected some of your behaviour."

She paused to scribble another note: _Patient differentiated between current treating Psychologist and other Asylum Doctors. Does this indicate a degree of faith or trust in treating Psychologist?_

She glanced up at him again. He was watching her with half-lidded eyes, a slightly thoughtful expression on his face. She felt suddenly warm and wiggled on her chair.

"Go on, Doc." He whispered and a hot shiver shot down her spine.

Joan had warned her about taking work home with her. But since her weekends were steadily becoming quieter anyway, she figured she may as well fill them productively. Besides, she couldn't help it. His psychosis was so - fascinating. _He_ was so fascinating. How could someone so heavily restrained still be so captivating? Consequently she'd spent the past weekend immersed in his files, reading a few books she'd ordered from Amazon. He was completely outside her realm of experience. What was it going to take to get him talking to her?

She stammered a little, then continued:

"You said to me that no one had considered how you ended up in the room with the three guards to begin with. I realised that, given your notoriety, your case is probably always approached with extreme prejudice. What do you think of that?"

He clucked his tongue, tapped his toes together.

"Do you think that approach is unjustified, Doc?" He responded.

Did she? How could any treatment help him if it wasn't impartial?

"I'm asking for your opinion." She said calmly.

He turned his head away, looked down at his toes and tapped them together again.

"I can tell you about a time when the 'extreme prejudice' against me proved very problematic for me, Doc."

She shifted in her chair a little, sat up straight. "Yes?" She encouraged him, slightly thrilled. Another confidence?

Joker cleared his throat and tipped his head back, gazing up at the ceiling.

"I don't get a lot of visitors here. Very few indeed. Sometimes the occasional researcher, or optimistic student, self-proclaimed fans, my lawyers - an occasional nocturnal visit -" She twitched at this reference to Batman, but kept quiet. "But this one time, a couple of years back, I got the call. The guards retrieved me from my cell, trussed me up, and took me the visiting room. Who should be sitting there, but a young woman. A very lovely young woman, I might add, with lovely auburn hair and the prettiest lilac eyes, freckles, little cupid's bow mouth." Joker chuckled. "She was quite a looker indeed. The hours are long in here, Doc, and a visitor always promises a little fun. If she's easy on the eye it's a bonus. So I was in a very good mood by the time they strapped me to the chair."

She nodded, kept her eyes on him attentively, making blurred notes on the notebook settled on her knee. Interesting, the way he seemed to respond to beauty. He'd commented on her looks too, hadn't he? And yet he had not been noted for having a particular libido, or interest in sex. Some of the inmates were permitted mild pornography. The Joker had never even enquired.

"The guards retreat, far enough away we can have a private conversation, but close enough to intervene, if necessary. I can't remember what I said to her in greeting, something flippant and charming about how she'd brightened my day already and I couldn't wait to see what she did for an encore. She didn't say anything, just sat there, staring at me and wringing her hands. I don't mind being stared at Doc, in fact I rather like it. But there was something in this one's stare that - well, provoked me. I can't say what it was, exactly. I figured she must be a relative of a victim's, or something like that, come to get closure. I anticipated a good time ahead, but meanwhile all she did was _stare_. I gave her my prettiest grin and it seemed to snap her out of it."

What was he going to tell her? Did he enjoy his victims confronting him? Did that make him feel powerful? Wasn't he ever afraid one of them would try to take his life? Lying there, The Joker seemed the very picture of complacent self-confidence. Even restrained as he was, he seemed relaxed and comfortable.

"'_Sorry for staring_', she said, '_It's just - I think you might be someone I know. I think you might be my long-lost brother_.'"

Harleen blinked. Joker flickered his gaze over to her, a little smile playing about his lips.

"Well, I was taken aback by that, Doc, but not for long. I'm surrounded by kooks all the time, don't forget, so I just widen my eyes at her and barely suppress a grin while she gets a photo out of her purse and holds it up for me. '_You see_,' she says, '_you look so much like him_!' "I look at the photo and well, this guy looks _nothing_ like me. He's three-hundred pounds. Oh, and Latino." Joker chuckled and Harleen couldn't help the little titter that escaped her mouth in response.

"Anyway, this girl then _begs_ me to tell her I'm her long-lost brother. She's desperate. Her big eyes are filled with tears and she's leaning as close as she can without the guards coming to drag her away. '_It's you, isn't it Freddie?_' She's imploring me and I'm having a quiet little laugh to myself. I'm thinking - mmm - this could be fun! What could I do with this? So I say, 'yes it is, my darling sister - where have you been?' '_Freddie!_' She cried, '_Why did you leave? We've all missed you so!_' '_I've missed you too, sister dear._' I say to her. '_It's so good to see you again!_' And we spend the next hour or so talking about this and that, she's telling me all about Mom back West and my little nieces and nephews and I'm playing along, nodding and smiling and making her promise to come back and show me photos of the little tykes and then off she goes and I sort of forget about it. Until that evening that is, when I'm in the common room, watching the evening news. And what happens? The newsreader comes on with an announcement - _Joker's sister tells all to Goth TV in an exclusive 100,000 deal!_"

Harleen started, feeling somewhat confused. Joker had steadily become more animated, spinning the words out with colourful inflection and matter-of-factness, absorbing her in the images he was painting with his words. But now she wasn't sure where he was going.

"I'm sitting there, realising the whole damn thing was a ruse. She wasn't a nutcase at all but a clever little vixen who got me on tape - me, the great Joker - declaring myself as her brother. Yes, the wretch had a tape recorder in her bag the whole time! And now she was profiting from it!"

The fingertips of one hand fluttered to her mouth. Ooh. He would not have liked that. He would not have liked to have been tricked like that. What could he have done?

"You can imagine I wasn't happy, Doc. Not happy at all. In fact, I was so unhappy that I disabled both guards on the door, appropriated their weapons and blazed my way out of here all the way down to Dr. Arkham's brand new Mercedes. I burned rubber all the way to the local Goth TV station, causing a six car pileup, an intersection gridlock and an overturned mac truck along the way. I hit the brake so hard at the station I could smell the burning rubber as I got out of the car and barrelled towards the doors."

Although he was strapped down, without the ability to move about or use his arms, still Joker somehow animated his story. It was no mere recitation of events; expressions contorted and played over his face rapidly at each new twist in the tale, holding her gaze, enraptured.

"Just as I got to them, I saw her in the distance, her pretty auburn hair shining beneath the street lights, heading for her car. I ran, ran as hard and fast as I could, just as she opened the door and started to get in."

Joker's voice had risen and unconsciously, Harleen had sat forward in her chair, feeling her pulse begin to rise, anticipation keen in her breast. God, what had he done?

"I made a flying leap! Grabbed hold of her leg. And I started pulling on it, Doc, pulling on that leg - just like - I'm pulling on yours right now."

Harleen sat there for a moment and blinked as his words sank in. He grinned at her and she felt her mouth drop open and then she burst out laughing, a sound that was quickly muffled by her hand as he chuckled and lifted his chin grandly in the air as though receiving a round of applause.

"I can't believe -" She began and then broke out laughing again and he joined in, softly. He turned his head to the side and beamed engagingly at her as she laughed, as much at herself as at the gag.

"You really got me sucked in." She said with gentle reproach.

"I know!" He crowed. "You should've seen your face. It was gorgeous! Your eyes were big as saucers, thinking - _what's next? What's that old Joker gonna say next_? It was great, Doc. You're a scream!"

How strange it was. It was almost like they were - well. It wasn't like they were Doctor and patient. More like - a couple of friends, sharing a gag.

"You shouldn't make fun of your Doctor like that." She heard herself say, cocking her head to the side coquettishly.

"Aw, but she's so endearing when she laughs!" He said playfully.

She suddenly realised her behaviour and gripped her notebook hard, gazing down at the lines of black scribbles on it. Was she completely out of control? Flirtation was a language she had often communicated in, it was second nature to her. But she could _not_ get drawn into doing it with her patient. No way. And just why the heck had she?

Joker seemed to noticed her sudden stiffness, because his grin dropped and he looked musingly at the ceiling. "I find it easier to talk to people who enjoy a good laugh." He said mildly.

She raised her head to look at him. She felt perturbed and unsettled, a strange feeling swirling in the pit of her stomach.

"How about we move on." She suggested quietly.

--

_The lovely Chaotic Jinx raised some very pertinent point in her thoughtful review and I wondered if other people might've been thinking the same sorts of things, so I thought I'd take this opportunity to clarify a few points._

_First of all, the unlikeliness of an inexperienced young intern being given the case of Joker._

_Hell, YES!_

_I totally agree. It seems ridiculous and impossible, doesn't it?_

_However, this isn't my invention - this is __**canon**__. In _Mad Love_, Harley's origin comic in the DCAU world, Harley is given Joker's case after working at Arkham for only three months, straight from uni. It isn't specified in the mainstream universe how long it was before she got Joker's case, but she's still an intern straight from uni. This story is set in the mainstream universe and I've decided to make it six months. Still impossible, in the 'real world', but we aren't dealing with the real world. ;) Also, remember that Joker is such an impossible case and Harley came with such great grades they were probably willing to take a chance._

_As for Harley's naivety and gullibility. These are both key characteristics of her personality. In _Mad Love_, Joker sucks her in from their __**first**__ session! For me, this is just too quick, though I understand the reason for writing it this way in a 62 page comic that had to be punchy and effective. But I've changed it up a little. But yes, she's still very naïve. I will also point out that it is made clear in _Batman: Harley Quinn_ (her mainstream origin) that Harley slept her way through med school as well. Therefore she's not as well-learned and trained as another beginning psychiatrist would be. _

_It is also worth me saying that the __**entire**__ run of Harley's own series is __**patently ignored**__ for this fiction. I DO NOT consider anything in that series to be true 'canon' so it will not be used here._

_Also remember that Harley's principal interest here is fame and glory. She's a pretty soft-hearted little thing, but she's here to get juicy dirt for a book that will make her famous and 'respected'. So some of her behaviour might be a little unethical._

_I certainly don't want Harley to come across as completely hopeless though - as I don't think of her as hopeless at all. She's just a particular little creature._

_I hope that clears up some quibbles for you all. Do keep 'em coming if you feel there are more, though. :D Always happy to hear your feedback._

_Also - if you're wondering if those guards really did take Joker into that room to do mean things to him - weeeelll, personally, I doubt it. I think it was a botched escape attempt, and he'd bribed them somehow._


	9. Session 23: The Joker

**EIGHT**

**Week Twelve: **_**Session 23 - The Joker**_

"How did this get in my office?"

He grinned and stretched his neck, clucking his tongue toward the ceiling. Then he swivelled his head toward Doctor Quinzel who was sitting there with a prim set to her lips, a rosebud held between the fingers of one hand. He raised his eyebrows to her.

"I put it there." He said simply.

She frowned a little, sat back in her chair. He went on smiling.

She didn't know what to make of it, he could see. On one hand - he'd not only somehow bypassed security - he'd been in her office. Her private space.

On the other hand - he'd given her a rose.

A beautiful, perfect red bud, its petals tightly wrapped together, just beginning to open.

Just like her.

She pressed her lips tighter together. "I think Doctor Arkham would be interested to hear about this."

Oh, that old chestnut. He cocked his head to one side and surveyed her eagerly. She was perturbed, he could see. Very unsettled. He'd been in her private space. When he was supposed to be locked up nice and snug as a bug in his cell. So she hadn't completely forgotten who he was just yet.

"If you were really going to tell him," he said with quiet assurance, "you already would have."

She visibly reeled. Her grip on the bud slipped a little, her lower lip slackened. He already knew she was thinking that the conversation was not supposed to go this way.

The conversation was not supposed to go this way because he was supposed to be afraid of the threat she had implied. A threat she didn't even realise she had no intention of carrying out.

Heh.

She shifted on her chair, opened her mouth and shut it again, glanced at the rosebud in her fingertips with a strangely conflicted expression. It was almost devastatingly cute. Not only had he somehow got out of his maximum security cell, and got into her locked office, he'd procured a rosebud. It was completely beyond her imagination, when the schematics of it were perfectly obvious. But he'd always been marvellous at misdirection.

She recovered herself, folding her hands on her lap, the bud concealed within one palm, looking at him intently. "Would you care to tell me how you put this in my office?"

He stared at her for a long, slow moment, letting the corners of his mouth turn steadily downwards. He let his shoulders sink, a small crease appear between his eyebrows.

"I just thought I'd thank you." He said in a quiet, dejected voice. "You know. For caring."

This discomfited her again. Privately, he marvelled to see it. The expression on her face did not quite change - there was just the merest stiffening or softening of her jaw, a flicker in the depths of her hopelessly transparent eyes, a slight shift on her chair. Doctor Quinzel wanted the dirt on him and if he trusted her, he'd give it to her. So if he wanted to thank her for caring, she was getting there. And, as Doctor Quinzel had demonstrated when she had decided not to act on her convictions and confront Doctor Arkham about guard brutality, ultimately that was all that really mattered to her.

"Well, of course I appreciate the gesture," She said desperately, "Please don't misunderstand me. It's just we have to investigate any breach of - "

He sniffed, twisted his body away from her as far as it would go, towards the wall behind them. "I understand, Doc. It's just - well. I thought you and me - well never mind what I thought. When I had the rose put there, I thought it might make you smile, y'see - "

"Wait," she interrupted him. "You _had_ the rose put there?"

He swivelled around to face her again. "Well, what did you think I meant?"

She blinked rapidly for a moment, opened and shut her mouth again and he saw her glance down at her lap, to where the small, fragrant bud was hidden beneath one of her hands. He wondered whether the petals felt soft and velvety against her skin. He imagined her holding it up to her nose, breathing it deeply in, while alone in her office.

He barely suppressed the predatory growl that rose in his throat.

"I'm sorry," she said slowly after a long pause. "I thought - well. Never mind what I thought." They locked eyes for a moment as she realised the way her words had echoed his. She hesitated, then pushed forward: "Did you ask a guard to put it there?"

He blinked at her, sat up as far as the straps would allow him. "What's wrong? Did something of yours go missing?" He queried her, colouring his words with a note of irritable concern; as though he would personally deal with any act of theft carried out upon her belongings.

"No, no," She hastened to assure him, unconsciously letting herself be sidetracked. "Nothing like that, just -"

"I'm glad to hear it, Doc," He relaxed back against the couch. "I'd be annoyed to hear that, I can assure you. Couldn't have _my _Doctor being subjected to petty larceny. And the mugs in this joint should know better, too." He finished up, decidedly haughty, and a blush hovered around her cheekbones as she bent over her notebook, scribbling on the pages.

He wasn't just playing to her desires, of course; he truly did believe his treating Doctors should be sacrosanct within the Asylum. Out of bounds to all, except himself naturally. But Doctor Quinzel would enjoy scribbling about his grandiose disorder and egotism.

But more than that, this acknowledgement of her. He watched her pretty blonde head lift from the pages of her book, dart quickly around the room before falling back down and it occurred to him she was looking for a power board. She wanted to be able to go back to her office later and rewind a tape; play over and over again his words:

"Couldn't have _my _Doctor being subjected to petty larceny. Couldn't have _my _Doctor being subjected to petty larceny. Couldn't have _my _Doctor being subjected to petty larceny."

"So," She floundered a moment and he saw her hand close loosely around the obscured bud. "You felt - gratitude - that I was willing to listen to you the other week, consider your perspective and experience?"

He shrugged his shoulders lightly against the thick canvas of the straitjacket. "You're the first person to have ever done that, Doc. Of course I felt grateful. And this joint is so gloomy and you're so young - I guess I just thought a flower might brighten up your day a little."

She stared at him reflectively for a long moment. "That's very thoughtful of you."

He shifted his arms against the straps, half-lidded his eyes as he gazed out across the room. Then he sidled his gaze towards her. "Or maybe I just wanted to get you off your guard." He said slyly and she started.

"Now, what do you mean by that?" She queried him, her voice trembling and he chuckled.

"Well, that's what they'd tell you, isn't it Doc? If you had told them, that is. They would say, don't get sucked in by that, Doctor Quinzel, he's just trying to play you for a fool. Ha."

He watched those thoughts careen wildly around in her head for a moment and then she sat up a little straighter and say decidedly: "But that wouldn't make any sense, because of course I would've been on my guard as soon as I saw the rose in my office. Because you're not supposed to be out of your cell, let alone in my office and so I would've been suspicious straight away."

He grinned at her, nodded encouragingly: "_Exactly_." He said it as though she had uncovered a great revelation and her pretty little face froze with careful reflection. He'd just talked her into a circle and she hadn't seemed to realise. Now, if he'd played his part right (and he was sure he had) she would draw the conclusion herself that because she'd been suspicious when she'd discovered the rose, his motives couldn't have been sinister.

Her eyes darted about the floor as she thought it through and he waited patiently, stretching out his vertebrae one by one, feeling them click beneath their layers of skin and sinew. Finally she gave a little half nod and lifted her hand, revealing the bud.

"None of your other Doctors made any mention of you leaving them a rose." She said contemplatively, not quite able to mask the slightly smug note in the depths of her voice. She might as well have been sixteen for all the subtlety she possessed.

"Well," He said suavely, "I've never left any of them a rose before."

A little smile danced about her mouth then and he felt himself grow molten hot inside, absolutely delighted with his cleverness. Now she felt really special. Of all the great noted respectable and revered who'd treated him over the years, only she had warranted enough attention to be given a rose. By him. The Joker. She lifted the rosebud up by its stem, twirling it about in one hand.

"Well," She said, trying to obscure the pleased note in her voice. "I'm truly glad to know that you felt supported through your ordeal," His eyes bulged just slightly but he kept his expression otherwise still. "But as much as I appreciate the gesture, it's really not appropriate." She turned her baby blues to his, gently firm and slightly beseeching. "Do you understand?"

There was a plaintive note in her voice and he relished it, running his tongue over his teeth as though he could taste it. How easily she believed in the illusory power she held; how fearful she was of losing him. He bet if he pushed, she'd let him send her roses every day until her office was choked with their cloying scent and their thorns clung to her cheap rayon blouses and stockings, tearing small red threads on her perfect pink flesh. Anything to win him over. He imagined her smothered in petals, opening her lovely rosebud lips to scream, only to vomit up a tide of perfumed blossoms.

"Of course, Doc." He said mildly.

--

_The rosebud idea and some dialogue at the beginning is directly drawn from _Mad Love. _All hail Dini and Timm. Although that is Harley's DCAU origin story, I felt some elements of it would remain the same in the mainstream universe. In particular, something like a rose would make Harley feel singled out and special as though she is more likely to get into Joker's psyche. Plus we never saw a lot of their 'session time' in the mainstream stories, and some of the _Mad Love_ stuff is too classic to be ignored!_

_And yes, it's deliberately left obscure how/if Joker did indeed get out of his cell and deliver the rose himself. That's part of the fun, kids!_


	10. Session 26: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**NINE**

**Week Thirteen: **_**Session 26 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

"Has anyone ever told you what an unusual name you have?"

She knew this would be coming. After all, how could he resist?

"Yes," she smiled at him. "Harleen Quinzel - most people call me Harley. It becomes Harley Quin."

He was grinning at her from the couch, seeming pleased as punch. "I like it!"

"I thought you might. I was in the Drama club as an undergrad. One of the guys there pointed it out to me."

"Oooh!" He raised a cheeky eyebrow. "A boyfriend?"

She pressed her lips together and tried not to smile. "No, just an acquaintance. But enough about me. What would you like to talk about today, Mister Joker?"

He pouted. "You're so formal. Just call me Joker. I think enough time has passed, don't you?"

Was this a good sign? She wasn't quite sure. "Okay, if it will make you happy."

"So much. And I'll call you Harley."

Oh no, that was definitely a boundary. She looked at him apologetically and said as firmly as she could: "I must ask you to please call me Doctor Quinzel."

He fluttered his lashes at her. "But it will make me happy!"

She couldn't help but laugh a little. He could be so charming. "I'm afraid it's just not appropriate."

"Oh all right then," He relented, turned his head to the ceiling. "But lemme ask you something, Doc: do you refuse because you really don't want me to, or because you know Joanie would say it's crossing a line?"

She felt unsettled, because she suddenly wasn't sure. "I - I think that's actually irrelevant." She said finally.

He chuckled quietly. "Okay, Doc. Have it your way. Do you know Joan is one of the only Doctors here who's never done a stint with me?"

"Yes, she'd mentioned that." She wondered where this was leading.

"She's a smart woman, that Doc Leland." Joker said approvingly and she scribbled this down. Respect?

"She's been very good to me." She couldn't keep the warmth from her voice. Joan had been wonderful to her, actually. Harleen looked forward to their twice-daily coffee breaks. Joan was so easy to talk to, and they kept the conversation strictly _off_-business.

Joker quirked a brow, turned his head slightly to her.

"Has she? Of course she has. She's like that. She'd want to nurture young talent. How are things in the common room going?"

"You're interested in the other inmates?"

"Not particularly. Just interested in the -" and he slid the word out between his teeth "- _action_."

"I'm afraid it's been uneventful. Quiet games, movie nights, book reading."

"Keep an eye out as the full moon rises. Things always get a little wild then. Have you ever watched Jane Doe work the room?"

Harleen had not paid much attention to the cipher. Her psychoses was intriguing, but she was not very high profile.

"No."

Joker chuckled. "Oh Doc! You gotta watch her some time. She's hilarious. Gets under everyone's skin before they even know she's doing it, cos she's such a sweet, innocuous looking thing. Nastily perceptive though. And you oughta see the sparks fly when she and Whitey are in together! Actually, I think their schedules coincide this Friday night - movie night isn't it - you should stick around Doc!"

Without thinking she replied: "I'll be at the Iceberg." She felt vaguely disappointed. It would be interesting to watch The Great White Shark up against the woman who'd practically made him.

"Why the Iceberg, Doc?" Joker's voice was nonchalant and too late she realised what she'd let slip.

"Oh -" she stammered, "- nothing much. Birthday."

"Yours?" Joker was staring at her delightedly, his eyes round and wide.

"N-no! Not mine. A friend's."

"I can tell you a few stories about the Iceberg," Joker continued smoothly, his face taking on a look of fond nostalgia. "Boy, can I! Me and old Pengers go waaay back! Hee hee hee. He has girls working there - yannow the kind I mean - just on the floor, mingling at the bar, subtle as you like. A former mayor's in there one night and picks up a couple, goes upstairs to the private rooms Pengy keeps for paying customers. What he doesn't know, though, is in the room next to him a bunch of thugs are cutting a drug deal and in the room on the other side of him, there's a group of cops getting ready to bust the thugs. Well, all hell breaks loose of course - the Mayor's all wrapped up with his lovely ladies when he hears: _Police! Freeze!_ And then there's a peal of gunfire. So he panics! Rushes out into the corridor, completely starkers, hollering that he's been drugged, runs down into the club in front of everyone and falls in the pool! Ha ha ha ha!"

Harleen giggled despite herself. "I think I remember reading about that!"

"_I _was there!" Joker boasted. "Oh, I could tell you a _lot_ of dirty stories about the Iceberg, Doctor Quinzel..." And he trailed off tantalisingly.

She wanted to ask him about them. She'd have stories to tell her friends on Friday - it would bridge the gap that had been beginning to grow.

"_If you're not too busy, I'm having birthday drinks on Friday." _Is how Melissa had put it in a chilly sort of way, and it still stung to think of it. How could she explain how draining this job was - how a personality like The Joker's was a force that seemed to suck her dry, demanding all her attention and concentration, leaving her feeling limp and exhausted afterwards? She could scarcely believe it herself, much less describe it. Becky had noticed: "_You're changing Harley. You always used to be up for a laugh. Now you're so serious." _She wanted to cry. She had goals, dreams! Couldn't they understand?

"Do you socialise at the Iceberg often?" She queried. He wanted to talk, after all. Maybe she could push him the right way.

Joker beamed and she was struck again by how magnetic he was. It was hard to look away from him when he smiled like that - no menace, just joy.

"I've done my share!" he smirked. "There was this one time I went there to celebrate after a little activity of mine went particularly well. I invited the whole joint to join me, had a hundred bottles of Kristal opened, oysters and caviar by the pound. I might've got a little drunk," He conceded bashfully and continued, "We ended up dancing on the bar. I think I tried to use the cello player's instrument like a pogo stick. Heh. Pengers didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Most of the decent citizens were cowering in a corner or had fled, and the only people with the cajones to join me were those looking for a cheap thrill or petty crooks. The mob had all left in a huff of course. So we were making things look very bad indeed for him, but I was wracking up a huge bill, and we all know how that Bird loves his filthy lucre."

Joker paused for a second, gazing reflectively across the room, then cackled. "I think I wound up in his penthouse suite with half a dozen of his girls and maybe an adventurous boy or two. I can't quite remember."

Harleen started a little at this frank admission and scribbled a few frantic notes.

"It turned out one of the girls wasn't a hooker at all, but Sal Maroni's girlfriend! He was downstairs bailing Penguin up trying to get upstairs. Meanwhile we're snorting away pounds of his best cocaine courtesy of his fickle femme. Hee!"

Harleen had stopped scribbling and was gazing at the madman with a captivated expression. She'd smoked a little pot in uni, a little bit of ecstasy here and there and certainly her fair share of kegs, but she'd never tried anything harder. What Joker was describing sounded like something out of the movies! Joker grinned, tapped his toes together and continued.

"But that wasn't the best part - oh, no Doc. The best part - ha ha ha - the best part was I settled my bill up, all nice and on the level, but what Pengy - ha - what Pengy didn't know was that - I paid him with the money I stole from him earlier! That's what I was there celebrating!" Joker cackled with glee and she had to lift a hand to hide her smile.

She couldn't seem as if she was encouraging any criminal activity. Still - there was something perversely amusing about it, and it's not as if Oswald Cobblepot was an honest businessman. He didn't even have Joker's excuse of being insane. She bet her friends would enjoy this story. She always used to be good at making them laugh. These days she seemed to have forgotten a lot of the old jokes.

"So," she said primly, as Joker's laughter died down. "After the orgy did you -"

"Orgy?" Joker looked disgusted. "Doc, I didn't have sex with any of them!"

This was intriguing. "Really? Then why would you - "

He shrugged. "Why not? It was all in fun. I just wanted to hear the sound of beautiful laughter in the air around me. Plus it amused me - y'see, the girls go on your bill and Pengy pays the girls direct. HA!"

"So you let them all live?"

He blinked at her. "Of course, Doc! He wouldn't have been out of pocket if they'd been dead and he didn't have to pay them!"

"And there was no sexual interaction with them at any point of the night?"

Joker's eyes narrowed and his grin became sly. "I don't kiss and tell, Doc."

"Since we're on the subject, I'd like to talk about your sexuality." It was a matter of some debate - he seemed to play to all sides and none at once in the files she'd read.

Joker looked theatrically scandalised. "I'm not sure we're ready for that. I don't think we know each other well enough yet."

"You wouldn't like to say if you've had any - partners?" Of course she was curious. It was her job. But as she looked at him, his strange angular visage, alive with energy, she found herself wondering how easily he might seduce someone.

He leaned back and wiggled. "So many faces. So many smiles. But only one real partner in the great dance of life."

She leaned forward a little, alert. "And who would that be?"

His smile was dark with something unnameable. "If you don't know, Doc, I'm not going to tell you." He whispered, and it made her shiver, like a fingernail trailed softly down her spine.

She thought of Sal Maroni's girlfriend, going upstairs with him and a bunch of prostitutes for - what? What had the girl thought it would be? Hadn't she been frightened? Hadn't they all been frightened? He killed. Without thought or consideration. He'd killed dozens of women. _Children_, even. Surely not even money could be tempting enough to risk almost certain death?

She studied him thoughtfully, puzzling it out.

He wasn't handsome. Not like a movie star anyway. But there was something - compelling about him. She'd mostly been out with jocks before, big, beefy guys with chiselled faces. Next to them, Joker was as lean as a whippet, though he was anything but fragile. She was fully aware of his physical skills - he was a savage and dirty fighter and was alarmingly strong. At just a hundred and ninety pounds, he was slightly underweight for his height of six feet and five inches - but every inch of him was solid muscle. She knew he worked out in the Asylum gymnasium when he had full privileges, and had been observed doing various types of push-ups and other resistance exercises in his cell when restricted. He was also entirely unpredictable and was often aided with a savage burst of adrenalin that was almost impossibly high. Furthermore, he had a very high tolerance for pain. She knew it had taken as many as six guards the size of Ethan to subdue him when he was really in a rage.

His face was long and angular and incredibly expressive, aided by his wide red slash of a mouth which could pull itself into all sorts of remarkable shapes. His nose was aquiline and aristocratic and his eyes sparkled constantly. He moved with feline grace, incredibly agile and every action or gesture he made was slightly theatrical, completed with a flourish.

Stand him in a line with Brad Pitt, Ricky Martin, Elvis Presley and Arnold Schwarzenegger and it would be impossible to look at anyone but him.

It made her feel vaguely uncomfortable.

"Are you still with me, Doc?" Joker queried, looking vaguely amused and she started.

"I am - I am sorry." How humiliating! She'd been staring at him. "I didn't mean to be so rude."

He tossed his head. "I love being looked at, actually. Do you love looking?"

He sidled his eyes slyly towards her and she felt her cheeks grow hot.

"It's not an excuse," she said, "But you _are _unusual."

He preened and she knew she was doing the wrong thing trying to make up for her behaviour - feeding his ego, getting drawn into his narcissism.

Something else to keep from Joan.

She cleared her throat, pushed her glasses up, moved on hastily.

"You don't seem to have a type of victim." She began. "What I mean is, most routine killers have a particular type - age, gender, race, etcetera." Almost immediately, she began cursing herself. How, how, how could she just stumble onto that topic - no lead in or build up! Why did she keep letting herself get flustered? Too late now. "What I mean is, there's been no pattern established amongst your victims, and I - "

"Oh, I have a type, Doc." He breathed with insinuation and she blinked at him.

"Care to enlighten me?"

His grin stretched slowly. "The human type."

--

_Jane Doe and The Great White Shark are characters who appear in the excellent _Arkham Asylum: Living Hell_. It really captures what a ghastly experience both being an inmate and a doctor at the asylum must be. And a guard, for that matter._


	11. Session 29: The Joker

**TEN**

**Week Fifteen: **_**Session 29 - The Joker**_

"Do you have a boyfriend, Doctor?"

She put her pen down on the page, clasped her hands together and looked at him, at his nose. Pretending she was looking into his eyes.

"You know better than to ask me questions about my personal life, Joker."

She didn't.

Over the months she'd been giving off more and more an aura of solitude, the kind of confused loneliness a pretty and popular girl gets the longer she's been single, when she's never been single before.

"A girlfriend then?" He continued playfully and she blinked at him, trying to keep her expression fixed and neutral.

"I know you are aware these questions aren't appropriate, Joker."

But Doctor Quinzel was an ambitious young woman. She wanted her name to be celebrated and remembered. Girls like that didn't have time for boyfriends. Or girlfriends, for that matter.

"You asked me." He pointed out with a slight pout.

"It's part of my job to ask you questions like that." She returned calmly and he gasped and boggled his eyes at her.

"Shame on you, to lead me on so!" He threw his head back onto the couch dramatically and stifled an ostentatiously false sob.

She worked to suppress her smile, a pretty little blush.

How easily he made her smile, and how earnestly she tried to restrain it. What was the world coming to when such a merry little creature felt like she had to swallow her natural inclination to laugh easily and often? He wanted to see her smile more. All this serious gazing and earnest looks were very unbecoming to her. They seemed unnatural.

"I think Doctor Bartholomew might have his eye on you," he continued glibly. "Ethan too."

The smile snapped off her face. "Joker, I must insist we move away from this topic. Otherwise we will have to end the session early."

She seemed more disappointed than anything else. He hadn't been unpleasant to her since his little outburst and he knew she was finding it easier to forget the body count. He wondered if she really would end the session early. Should he push it, or be good?

"I'm sorry, Doc." He said humbly. "I don't mean to pry. But I have an insatiably curious nature."

She relented somewhat. "I understand your desire to know more about the person treating you. But I'm sure you know it would be very unprofessional."

He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "And can you really blame me? A pretty girl like you. A fella couldn't help but wonder."

Flustered her again. She wasn't sure how to deal with his compliments. To turn them down would seem rude, to accept them too encouraging. He couldn't help but push a little further.

"There's a light in your eyes. It's quite unusual. You strike me as the sort of gal who was once an expert at fun but you've fallen out of practice. But you can't hide that merry little twinkle in your eye. It's in there, waiting to get out again. You should let your hair down more often, Doc. What do you do for fun?"

Her face had grown still at his words, and he knew he was scraping close to home. "Well, I am very occupied with my work here." Tsk! She should know better than to answer a question like that even in part. "But we're not here to talk about me, Joker."

He relented, satisfied at the tremor around her mouth. "Of course, Doctor Quinzel. What would you like to talk about today?"

"Well," She paused to think about it, "What would you like to tell me?"

_Oh Doctor, the things I could tell you, the visions I see - you're in a few of them, a carved out mannequin shell in a rotting ball dress with maggots eating a smile into your face._

Out loud he said: "I'd like to tell you a story."

He didn't need to look at her to know her eyes had gleamed.

"Once upon a time, right here in Gotham City, there was a Wolf and his Three Little Pigs. That might seem like an odd union, but as so many things are in Gotham, nothing is quite the way it should be. The lamb devours the lion, a penguin drapes himself in polar bear fur and strange winged demons behave as angels might. Anyway. The Wolf was very good to his little piggies, keeping them fat and fed and sleek, so that they never had to want for anything. Or wouldn't if they were at all reasonable. One day the little piggies got greedy. Piggies so often do. And as Wolfie was leading them home after a merry caper one day, the little piggies ambushed him! They did, Doc, they did."

"What did they do to you?" She asked him, her eyes round, her lower lip slack like a little girl's listening to a bedtime story.

"They tied Wolfie up!" He said dramatically, and she cringed. "They subdued and restrained him and bound him to a bed! No, don't blush. Doctor, it's nothing like that." He chuckled in response to her sharp intake of breath. "Y'see the little piggies had decided that what Wolfie doled out to them wasn't enough. They wanted more. They wanted access to Wolfie's secret hoard. Those greedy piggies! So they beat him, and chained him and stuck him full of a juice to open his snapping jaws, believing they could get the location of his little nest egg from him that way. Do you know what happened, Doctor Quinzel?"

"What?" She asked, almost tentatively.

He laughed. "Wolfie opened his jaws all right. He took in a great big breath and sucked them all in, straight into his enormous mouth. And in there they were taken on a little trip into the deep, dark corners of his head. Yes, they churned and coiled and floated down strange moist passageways of Wolfie's dark and distorted mind. Gold, and what it can do to a man, eh? They should've known they could never delve there and come back unharmed. No one can." He broke off, chuckling to himself and Doctor Quinzel lifted a hand to her throat.

"What happened to them?"

"He vomited them back up." He said simply. "Up they all came, one, two, three. And though discombobulated they weren't very happy with their Uncle Wolfie. But before they could so much as squabble for their gobble, Wolfie threw off their chains and laid them asunder. He nibbled their lips off, leaving them with beautiful, permanent smiles. Three stuck little piggies, bleeding like tears." And he tapped his heels together, three times, and hummed a little tune, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling.

"How?" She asked him, a trifle breathless. "How did you overpower them? There were three of them, and one of you. You were tied down. How did you get the better of them?"

He grinned at her wickedly, enjoying the sight of her enthralled gaze. "That's for you to puzzle over, Doc. Do you know why fairytales were told back in the olden days?"

She shook her head a little, no.

He snickered. "To warn children off doing naughty things with bad man."

She sat up straight. She was alarmed. "Are you threatening me?"

He pulled his expression into one of exaggerated innocence. "Why would I be doing that, Doc? Red is definitely your colour." He finished enigmatically.

She glanced down at the red blouse she wore, looked back up at him. Politeness told her to say thank you, but she wasn't sure if she should accept a compliment from him.

"Am I ever allowed to read what it is you write in that notebook of yours?" _What do you carry in your basket, little Red Hood?_

"No," She said firmly. "I'm afraid that has to be entirely confidential."

He quirked a brow at her. "You're _afraid_ it does?"

"I mean that it does."

"No matter what?"

"Yes."

"That's all right." He said breezily. "I already know what it says."

She started. Wiggled in her chair. Doctor Arkham would never fall for that. "How can you know that?" She asked him curiously, slightly challenging.

He swivelled his head to the side, grinned at her smugly.

"It's been written a hundred times before, Doc. It all has. Ever visited Gotham Public Library? I have my own shelf."

Very sweetly, she got defensive. "Well, maybe what I have to say isn't something you've read before. Maybe I have a different perspective."

He let his eyes traverse her body, down her red blouse and black skirt, over her nylon-clad legs to her scuffed black shoes. There was a little run in her stockings, covered over in clear nail-polish. She'd arranged it so it was on the inner leg, over one ankle, but because she'd crossed that ankle over the other, it was visible. He licked his lips.

"You've got a run in your stocking." He pointed out.

Hastily, she tucked that ankle behind the other. "It happened this morning." She hurriedly explained. She was so green - didn't she know she should never try to justify herself? It was almost too easy.

"You should just not wear any." He said flippantly and she had the gall to look scandalised, as though they were back in the nineteen-fifties.

"That reminds me of another story. My mother, back in the Depression, well stockings were expensive back then, you know, Doc. They were a luxury item. Not like today, where they're a dime a dozen." Her cheeks burned and _ah-ha_, he thought, _that run didn't happen this morning. "_Well, my mom and her sister, they were just a poor working class family and couldn't afford stockings, not when the only meal they had a day was bread and dripping. So what they'd do instead, with a couple of their pals, is pool in together for a bottle of tanning lotion, rub that all over their legs from just above the knee down, and then draw a black line up the back of their calves with eyeliner. Ha! Can you imagine it, Doc?"

She was gazing at him sceptically. "The Depression happened in the thirties. Your mother would have to have been very old when she gave birth to you."

He blinked at her. "You don't know how old I am, Doc."

"You're not that old." She said incredulously, and rather cutely.

"All right, Doc. I give." He conceded graciously. "I made the whole thing up. But what cares - it makes a good story, doesn't it? And isn't that all that matters?" He gave her a little more. She'd note he'd admitted to his fabrication - to her it would seem significant, an indication of trust. He was so good at this.

She tipped her head to the side and gazed at him thoughtfully.

"Could you describe to me what your understanding of truth is, please?" She tried so hard to be superior, to be distant and aloof. Did she know how miserably she failed? Could she conceive of it?

He chuckled again, rubbed his cheek on the couch. "Truth? The dictionary would define truth as being something that is absolute, that is incontrovertible. But we use it in a far more fluid fashion than that. We all have truths, Doc. But truth shifts. Truth changes, depending on who you're talking to and what their motive is. There is no truth, Doctor Quinzel. There is nothing on this earth that is absolute. Except perhaps one thing."

"And what is that?" She asked him.

"Ha." And he shifted so that he was lying flat on the couch, his head turned to the ceiling. "That's for me to know, and you to find out."

Doctor Quinzel was really very sweet, in her own way. He watched her scribble notes and knew his definition of truth had put motion in her pen. It was sweet because she simply didn't see the assessment she was making of him assumed that there _were_ absolute truths he, in his insanity, couldn't see.

And so, he was crazy and detached from reality. It didn't even occur to her that, in actuality, this reality she participated in didn't even really exist.

He wondered if Doctor Quinzel could handle being shaken out of the head trip that was life and if it would make her laugh again.

--

_The events referenced in this chapter are from Showcase '94 1 & 2. A very fun story._

_Joker's description of his mother's "fake stockings" is what my own grandmother and her sister used to do during the Depression. _

_I should probably take this moment to say that if you're wanting a lot of action and blood, this story won't provide it. What really interests me is the psychological play between Joker and Harley, how over time he drew her into his thrall. It would've been a slow and intricate process. And it would've been subtle. That's what I'm trying for, anyway. Only you guys can tell me how well I'm succeeding._

_But look forward to some fun in future chapters! ;)_


	12. Session 34: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**ELEVEN**

**Week Seventeen: **_**Session 34 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

Quarter to three.

Harleen was humming to herself while she waited for the guards to bring her patient in, reviewing her typed-up notes from the last few sessions and reflecting on the meeting she'd had with Joan on Tuesday.

She'd finally 'fessed up.

"We don't talk about much," she said. "We touch on things sometimes - like Batman, or his crimes - but then he always changes the subject."

Joan had a funny expression. "What does he talk about?"

She shrugged, humiliation making her blink rapidly. "Movies. Books. Music. Politics. Travel. Just… just stuff."

Joan reached out across the table and clasped a hand over Harleen's. "Harley, please think about this carefully before you answer. Does he get you to talk about yourself? However subtly it might be?"

She did think about that. She looked across Joan's office to the large windows overlooking the Asylum yards. It was a grey day outside, a light rain misting the tops of the trees. "No," she said finally. "No, he doesn't. I'm constantly waiting for it, Joan. I really am. I'm aware, I promise you. But he doesn't."

Joan sit back and smiled. "Harley, then you should be feeling very proud of yourself."

She blinked at Joan disbelievingly. "Excuse me?"

Joan sighed, gestured with her hand. "Believe me, I'm still not happy about this whole situation. But if he's talking to you - and talking to you about general subjects, not trying to frighten you or learn about you - then that is excellent." Joan's smile was perhaps a little rueful as she looked at Harley. "I'm afraid most Doctors cannot say they've had the same level of success."

A warm flush had begun in the pit of Harleen's belly. "Bu - but - we don't - he won't talk about himself, his past, his crimes, nothing!"

Joan laughed. "Yes, but Harley, he _is_ talking. If I were you, I wouldn't expect him to really open up to you for at least a year, maybe more. He's a hardened psychopath and has seen more doctors than I care to count. Usually he can't help but brag about the things he's done. If he actually wants to talk about more general matters with you - this is a very good sign, Harley. It means - well, it just might mean you're getting through to him. It's progress. Don't be too disheartened or impatient. Just keep things going the way they have been. This is very encouraging."

Harleen's heart leapt about joyously in her chest. She _knew _it. She knew it all along. She _did _have a knack for this stuff! If she _had_ studied properly, she would've got the same grades as the ones she screwed for, and here was the proof! She was getting through to _The Joker_! She, little Harleen Quinzel, professional jock, twenty-six years old and fresh out of school! She had to resist the urge to leap up and shout: "Yipppeeeeee!"

Joan's expression suddenly became serious. "However, Harley, I don't want you to become too complacent. It is entirely possible he has something up his sleeve. Please remain alert and aware and never, ever take him for granted."

Harleen barely heard her. The refrain was circling excitedly her head: _I__'__m gonna be famous, I__'__m gonna be famous, I__'__m gonna be famous._

Out loud she said: "Yes, of course, Joan."

She didn't think there was any need to tell Joan about the rosebud. She never had found out exactly how Joker had got it into her office. It had given her a strange, fluttering sensation to think he had been in there - touching her belongings. She had thought of him, in the darkness, fingering through her purse, her notebook, her drawers. But it seemed he'd somehow managed to persuade someone else to do it for him. Anyway, it didn't really indicate anything except that Joker thought she was different to the other Doctors he'd had, and that was a good thing, wasn't it?

She also didn't really think it necessary to tell Joan that at the Iceberg a month ago, the Penguin himself had come over to personally greet her and her friends, informing them their bill had already been settled before giving Harleen a knowing smile. Her friends had been impressed; and though she'd known it was a serious professional compromise to accept this gesture from Joker, it was already done - and she thought it might help develop their trust. Certainly, he'd been delighted when she thanked him and very understanding when she said he really couldn't arrange that sort of thing again. No, that wasn't for Joan to know, she'd handled that one just fine by herself.

Five minutes to three. They were four months into their sessions together now and while she thought things had been progressing at a snail's pace, she was still transfixed and intrigued by him. Everything he did seemed wrought with meaning. She'd seen Bill Clinton once, when he'd been on tour. Even in a crowd of all those people, he'd stood out, absolutely magnetic, drawing all eyes to him. Sheer charisma. Irresistible allure.

The Joker was the same. Except ten times as much.

She had over a hundred pages of typed notes and observations now, material she knew the public would lap up. How, after she'd watched the movie he had requested, he had raved over the performance of Donald O'Connor in _Make __'__Em Laugh_. How he had delighted over Jean Hagen as the primadonna star, Lina Lamont. It was utterly unexpected and disarming, and considering how he had almost off-handedly mentioned it was the perfect soundtrack to evisceration, it was just the sort of thing that would sell books. She'd loved the movie herself, which had been a pleasant surprise. It had been so - fresh - so innocent and so entertaining. She hadn't laughed so hard it what felt like months and although at one point she'd realised she was laughing alone, in her apartment, while her friends were out on the town, she reminded herself of her goals and how this was work towards them.

And so they'd laughed together. She'd felt her sides begin to ache as they went over _Make 'Em Laugh_ and _Moses Supposes_ as well as all the fumbling trouble over Lina's microphone. She remembered in the Drama Club - she'd always played those dizzy dame roles - how the audience had laughed - how she'd swelled to hear it.

She shook her head a little, discomfited by her recollections. She'd meant to join a community theatre group after graduation, but there just hadn't been time. She focused her mind back on her patient.

She hadn't expected him to be quite so good a conversationalist. He talked easily, charmingly. He was _interesting_. He had witty observations on almost everything and a rather playful sense of humour at times. She had seen nothing more of the dark predator who had smirked at her and asked if she'd ever been raped, or the maniac who had writhed and nearly broken his straps - she could scarcely believe he ever even had done those things.

The door opened and he was led in. She smiled brightly at Ethan and the other guard, Ross. She smiled brightest at her patient who dropped her a playful wink and submitted passively to being strapped down on his couch. It was beginning to bother her, the extremity of his restraint. In that position he couldn't do much more than move his head and flex his feet. It couldn't be conducive to his desire to share with her.

When the guards left, she spoke: "Are you uncomfortable?"

Both his eyebrows shot up. "Why Doc, such concern! I'm touched."

He was always so mischievous. She peered at him with gentle reproach. "Honestly, now. It can't be a very relaxing situation. And you're supposed to feel relaxed when you're in here with me."

"Heh." He let his head tip back against the end of the couch. "Funny the things you get used to, eh Doc?"

She couldn't say precisely why that remark bothered her. Perhaps it was because no one was supposed to be 'used' to being tied down.

"So, you think this is an inevitable and justified state for you to be in?" she asked him and he glanced over at her.

"Well," he said reasonably, "I've broken the rules of society, haven't I? When you do that, you get punished."

She paused for a long moment, blinked slowly at him. Her heart had started to thud. "So, you understand that the things you do are wrong?"

He shrugged lightly, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "I understand social majority dictates they are wrong."

This was - intriguing. Her fingers itched to take notes but she didn't dare do anything that might knock him off track.

"What do you mean by that?"

Lucidity. He was displaying lucidity. Comprehension. _Give nothing away, stay nonchalant._

He smiled, as if to himself. "What do you think I mean by that, Doc?"

She swallowed, sat up a little straighter. "Well, I cannot say for sure. But to me, it seems that you are aware your acts are anti-social. That they are illegal. Immoral. And not the joke you claim them to be."

He burst out laughing and she leapt in her chair. It was the first time she had ever heard him laugh; really, properly cackle in the way he was so notorious for. All of a sudden she understood why so many guards requested a shift change when they were assigned to his ward at night. It was a frightening peal of hysteria, tinged with savagery, and it went on almost interminably long. But worst of all, was how enigmatic it was. As though he knew a secret she didn't, and that secret was about her. She cringed.

"Sorry, Doc," he apologised when he stopped laughing. "But that was a good one."

She recovered herself, urging her heart beat to slow down. "What was so funny about what I said?"

He chuckled, rolled his eyes back. "You're so cute, Doc. I don't think you'll get it if I explain it you. It's one of those gags you kinda have to be in on to appreciate."

She felt desperate. Another almost-there, slipping away from her grasp. "Please. I'd like to try." She struggled to keep her voice even.

He flickered his purple gaze over to her, his lower lip a little stuck out, then shrugged, grinned again.

"Why not." He decided. "It's like this, Doc: The things I do aren't immoral. Or anti-social. Or illegal. Those words and their definitions have been concocted by humanity. They have no true, inherent meaning. They're an illusion. _That__'__s_ the joke."

She felt herself frown, a little flicker between her eyebrows. "I don't understand."

He sighed, jiggled one foot, the cuff around it rattling.

"No one does." He said sadly. "No one except me. This is why I so often go unappreciated, Doc."

She took in a steadying breath, urged herself to stay in control, not to rush forward.

"Joker, unlike many of the other inmates, you seem to have no motivation for your crimes. No convictions which compel you to do the things that you do."

He lifted his head and stared at her, eyes round.

"Doc!" He exclaimed. "No convictions? Moi? Oh dear." And shook his head. "And here I thought - oh Doc. This is tragic. I have convictions. I have _very_ strong convictions, in fact."

"Please tell me about them." The words left her mouth in a hurry and inwardly she cringed.

He chuckled, looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Doc, I just told you a moment ago. Don't you get it? Nothing means anything. Nothing. All of our social conventions, our community systems, our government and cultural practises and traditions - it is utterly meaningless. It has no intrinsic value except that which we assign to it. Do you understand what I'm saying, dear Doc? Maybe you're just too young."

He did not seem annoyed with her, just disappointed, and Harleen felt her heart sink straight into her stomach. She was losing him. Oh God, no.

"And the only reason we assign meaning to it is because it's the only way we can survive through this wretched gag we call life. And for what? We all die anyway, at the end of it. Does it matter, in the end, _how_? Why do we hold these abstract concepts - beauty, truth, liberty, justice, morality - so dear? Why do we elevate them so much? Have you any idea, sweet little Doc Quinn, how much our concept of morality has changed in just the last hundred years alone? There's no constant. There's no definitive. It shifts as we flounder, endlessly striving to sustain our paltry domination of this planet. In the end our struggle is the same of any living creature: survival. And for what? Why? What's the point? There is none. But we have to pretend there is, to make this vile, inane battle seem worthwhile. It's not worthwhile. We all wind up nothing more than dirt in the ground. No matter what we do. Do you listen to Tom Waits, Doc?"

She was spellbound. During the entire length of his speech he had become increasingly animated, lifting his head and shoulders from off the couch as far as they would go, his eyes bulging slightly, words pouring and tumbling over each other. It was passion, real passion, and she was excited and terrified he would shut down on her. Her mind raced.

"I think I understand," she said carefully, disregarding his final question. "That's the joke - the point you're trying to make - am I right? The joke is that no matter how hard we work, or study, or fight, what we value is an illusion. Because death is the end and that is indiscriminate. And you embody that indiscrimination." How strange the words felt, saying them. But she had to. To get him on her side again.

He relaxed, settled back against the couch. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, Doc."

Relief flooded her, and a strange warm pleasure too.

"But," she said, "Is it so wrong to value things? To be proud of accomplishment - to celebrate our evolution?"

He sneered. "Do you think a hurtling meteorite on a collision course is going to take a detour because of Pythagoras' Theorem and that some guy named Michelangelo carved a few nice statues? We venerate these things as though they somehow prove our significance. They prove squat, Doc. Life is a joke, and it's a grand one, so why not enjoy it?" And he threw back his head and laughed delightedly, a softer sound that the terrifying cackle of before.

For some strange reason, she yearned inside to cry out that her degree meant something. That it was important. She'd worked so hard for it. But he would laugh at her - wouldn't he? Besides, that was hardly the point. She wasn't here to justify herself to him. She didn't need him to value her accomplishments. That wasn't what this was about.

Instead she said: "But surely you realise that if everyone followed your example and ignored all concept of morality, that you would no longer be unique?"

He wiggled his toes and squirmed about as though he was delighted. "But that's the best part of all - no one ever will. Everyone is too afraid. Belief is an anchor, Doctor Quinzel, and it keeps the rest of the world hooked to the earth while chaos whirls around them. Meanwhile I get to watch, and whirl and laugh. I told you before, every good comedian needs their straight man. Or men. Heh."

She paused, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, looked down at her notes and then back up at him.

"But you do understand, Joker, that your behaviour _is _considered aberrant by society and that you will therefore incur retribution for your crimes?"

A smirk sidled up his face and he dropped her a slow wink.

"Oh, I dunno, Doc," he said breezily. "Society seems to think there's a lack of understanding between us."

At that moment, the clock clicked over to four o'clock and the guards entered.

Harleen stared down at her notebook for a long moment after he had left, a strange chill echoing through her body. Then she lifted her pen and wrote:

_I do not believe The Joker is insane._

--

_Oooh! The thlot pickens._

_Anyway, if you've been paying attention, you will have noticed Joker's got Harley to reveal quite a bit of information about herself, though she's unaware of it. He gets her to reveal little snippets of info, then distracts her by moving on quickly. Likewise, he touches on her vulnerabilities (like the run in her stocking - she can't afford a new pair) under the pretence of casual observation. God, I love him. _


	13. Session 37: The Joker

**TWELVE**

**Week Nineteen: **_**Session 37 - The Joker**_

He hadn't expected to get so passionate the other week. It was quite peculiar. Something about the daffy little Doc just brought it out in him. She was just so - idealistic, and hopeful and earnest and determined. He'd really wanted her to get it.

And for a moment, he thought perhaps she had.

But he'd seen the look in her eye as the session had wrapped up. The way she gazed at him, as though something had suddenly occurred to her. Something she had never even thought possible or probable or even plausible.

Doctor Quinzel might be a lousy shrink. But she was no dummy.

So he'd set things in motion. He had his ways. A bribe or two here, a little blackmail there, a few carefully phrased threats and he could get almost anything he wanted inside the walls of Arkham.

He knew she was going to start nosing around. She wouldn't find anything. Unless, of course, he decided to put things there for her to find.

So he did.

Eddie Marconi had always been a smart boy. He was easily coached and Joker knew he could count on him to play his part well.

It was turning out to be a rather lovely little game, after all that. It was hard, not to talk about the dear Dark Knight when he was with her, but he had to play some cards close to his chest, at least for a while. It was difficult not to start pulling her apart - but he'd grown a bit weary with just breaking his doctors. It was always so much of the same old thing.

And he rather thought Doctor Quinzel might hide a few secrets it would be more enjoyable unwrapping slowly.

"Tell me a joke, Doc."

She blinked at him. "Excuse me?"

He turned his head to her. "Tell me a joke. But don't just tell me any joke. Tell me your favourite joke."

She blinked, startled, and then, rather adorably, got shy. "You'll think it's silly."

"Try me."

"No really." She had flushed, in the way she did, wouldn't look at him. "It _is_ silly. I like silly jokes."

He grinned at her, baring his large, white teeth. "Me too. Tell me."

She shook her head a little, half-laughed and relented. "All right. What do John the Baptist and Winnie the Pooh have in common?"

He quirked a brow. "What?"

She actually shucked, ducked her head, twisted one shoulder forward as she delivered the punch line self-consciously. "Their middle names."

He did laugh. It was the sort of unpretentious, perfectly silly joke one couldn't help but laugh at.

"I like it." He told her.

"Really?" She seemed pleased and puzzled. Dear little Doctor Quinzel. She so wanted him to trust her. She'd probably written every word he'd ever said down and made a back up of it, and made a back up of the back up.

"Yeah. But the delivery was terrible."

Her colour deepened. "I didn't think you'd like it." _I thought you'd think less of me _was what he heard ringing in her voice.

He tsked. "Doc, whenever you tell a joke, always deliver it like it's the funniest thing in the world. Like you're doing your audience a favour by telling it to them. Like you're letting them in on some terrific secret. Anticipation is half the battle. Get your audience gagging for it, then punch it home. You'd be surprised how often an inferior joke can get a laugh that way. Don't just expect them to laugh, _believe _it."

"Does it surprise you when people don't laugh at your - jokes." She asked carefully.

His lips curved. "I live in hope." He replied flippantly.

She hesitated, then continued.

"Do you consider what you do - your life's work - I mean. Is it your way of making meaning of an existence you believe is meaningless?"

He looked at her, his cheek pressed against the leather of the couch, his arms in the straitjacket numb.

"I consider it to be the only reasonable response."

"So - even what you do, you consider to be meaningless - but just the only way of dealing with life?"

"One must take one's pleasures where he finds them."

He opened that one for her. Would she follow it - ask him if he enjoyed what he did, the screams of terror, the spray of blood, the frozen smiles?

"How did you come to form these beliefs on the meaninglessness of life?"

_Tell me about your childhood, Joker dear. _He smiled, a trifle musingly, to himself.

"I didn't. One day I simply saw the truth of it all."

She nodded, her eyes were round, the blue of them shining with hopefulness. "Your - transformation - at the hands of - of Batman." She breathed the name out so carefully, as though if she simply said it he might go berserk on her, or worse, shut down.

Instead he smiled smugly, wiggled back against the couch. "Yes," he said agreeably.

"You hate Batman for this?"

_No. I love him. I sing his praises from the rooftops. He is the perfect straight-man, the ultimate, there could be no other in all the world to equal him, or me and together we're the perfect double act!_

Out loud he said: "Wouldn't you?"

Then he let his head lower, shut his eyes, his mouth pulled down in a frown as though he were in some terrible pain. While the silence between them grew so that he could hear the rhythmic ticking of the clock, he wondered if she'd tracked down Eddie yet.

When she spoke next, her voice was gentle: "Would you like to finish early?"

He smothered a gasping laugh. How sweet!

"No," he replied calmly. "I'm fine. Just lost in… memories."

"Would you like to talk about something else?"

He opened his eyes wide, turned them onto her. Her perfect, oval-shaped face, her big blue eyes and cupid's bow mouth, all framed by that ridiculous blonde hair.

"You remind me of Betty Grable." he said out loud and she frowned.

"Who's Betty Grable?" She asked him and he started laughing.

"I keep forgettin' you're only a kid." He chuckled. "Go check out a few of her movies this weekend, Doc. Did you get that CD?"

"Yes." she wrinkled her nose. "I didn't like it much."

He shook his head, clucked his tongue. "The youth of today. No taste. What didn't you like it about it, Sweet Doc?"

"It was so dark. So gruesome. It was… it was worse than heavy metal or rap music because it wasn't really about violence. It was about despair."

"It's a great album," He smiled at the ceiling, dreamily, snatches of songs playing through his head. "You didn't like any of the songs?"

She hesitated. "Well - the one - _Coney Island Baby_. That was quite pretty."

"I like that one too." He agreed affably.

"A love song?"

He frowned at her. "Does that surprise you so, Doc? What would you pick for me?"

She bit her lip, making her look childish. "_God's Away on Business_?" she ventured and he chuckled.

"I like it." He conceded. "Though I do prefer _Everything Goes to Hel_l."

"Of course."

"Ooooh-ho, you know me so well, do you?" He teased and she hastened to reassure him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"I know. I just like getting a rise outta you, Doc. But my favourite - can you guess?"

She glanced sideways, chewing on her lip again. It was an unconscious action, one that belied her neatly pulled back hair and necktie, that made her seem no more than a schoolgirl.

"Um," she faltered. "The whale one?"

He grinned to himself. How simple she was.

"_Lullaby_." He said with quiet humour. Her eyes widened and she cocked her head slightly.

"Really? I would never have -" her voice trailed off thoughtfully and her gaze softened a little. He smiled at her and she smiled back and for a moment they were locked together like that.

He was breathless. How oblivious she was to the boundaries they'd eroded, to the things she was revealing. It wasn't like a fair fight at all. He could almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

And who liked fair fights, anyway?

He remembered the way he'd gotten her laughing, how it bubbled out of her throat all sweet and light. How much it had revealed of what she kept within. He'd wanted to bottle the sound, take it back to his cell with him, open it up whenever the night seemed too dim. She held so much of herself in. One day it was bound to come bursting out.

He wanted to be there when it did.

She looked down at her notebook, tapped her pen against the back of one hand, seeming to be hovering between a decision. Finally she spoke.

"I think I should tell you," she began carefully, "that I've recently conducted an interview with Eddie Marconi."

_Yes, yes, yes!_

"Who?" He queried her, leaning his head back on the couch.

She tilted her head to him. "You don't remember Eddie?"

He knit his brows together, as though pondering the question. "Should I?"

She nodded, slowly. "You used to work with him."

"Oh. You mean he worked _for me_," he said breezily. "Oh Doc, I've had a lot of thugs work for me over the last six years. I hardly remember all of them."

"No," she clarified, gazing at him thoughtfully. "I mean, that he worked _with_ you, before you - before your accident."

He snapped his eyes onto her. Smiled a little. "I don't think so, Doc." He said decidedly.

Her expression flickered with uncertainty: "He was quite certain -"

"I'm The Joker, Doc. A lot of people want a piece of me. You yourself have said so. Tell me, did you give this Macaroni fellow any money for the interview? Did you promise him a page in your magnum opus?"

He saw the full brunt of realisation overcome her, the way her lip quivered, how her eyes darted from side to side. She was so naïve. She honestly hadn't considered it that way.

"I am very sorry if I've betrayed your trust." She said finally, and yes, oh yes, yes, her eyes were just a little wet.

He smiled indulgently at her. "Oh Doc. Please. I'm crazy, but I'm not stupid. You're just doing your job. To be honest, I appreciate you going to so much effort. It shows me you're taking my case very seriously."

She nodded, her eyes still glistening, but earnest and sincere. "I am. I truly am. I feel like -" She paused, swallowed and considered her words. "- I feel that we've come a long way over the last few months. I would hate to think that I would inadvertently undo all the progress we've made."

"C'mon Doc - you were honest with me about it. How many other Doctors would've been?"

She swallowed, blinked rapidly. He could see the white of her eye smeared a little black around the edges, from her mascara. He wanted to lick her tears away. His whole body twitched and he bit his lip so he would not run his tongue over it.

"I wouldn't want to pass judgement over the decisions made by my peers." She said finally, judiciously, which was as good as saying _none of them. Just me. Trust me. Trust me. Trust me._

Sweet Doctor Quinzel. How could she know he _did _trust her? Just maybe not in the way she wanted him to.

He trusted her to break.

"Of course not," He agreed understandingly. "But it means a lot to me, Doc. It really does. Yannow, I think this might be a turning point for us."

Their time was up.

Yet it was just beginning.

--

_The events referred to in this chapter and chapter nine take place in the story "Case Study" seen in "Batman: Black and White Vol 2"_

_The album Joker and Harley are talking about is "Blood Money" by Tom Waits. I think Joker would love that album. Harley, not so much. Hee._


	14. Session 42: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**THIRTEEN**

**Week Twenty-One: **_**Session 42 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

_You're lucky you didn't blow the whole thing._

It didn't matter. It had been a few weeks ago now. Nothing to worry about anymore.

_Destroy it. Burn it. _

She snatched the file up, her hands shook.

_It might be useful. Later on. When you've learned more. To compare against._

She hesitated, the file trembling in her grip. Then she put it in the bottom drawer of her desk and locked it tight

It was almost time for her appointment with The Joker.

She'd been stunned by what she had thought was her discovery. An incredible theory had blossomed as she went over his files and case notes, supplemented by the interview she'd done. No one had ever thought of this before. It was so unbelievably radical it was sure to catapult her into the international spotlight, deliver her fame and respect beyond her wildest dreams.

_Blinded by that you could've ruin everything! Stupid, arrogant little… little brat!_

Of course Eddie Marconi had just wanted money. Wanted his own little slice of glory. She should've known, the way his eye gleamed when she said there was a participation fee. God, how could she have made such a rookie mistake?

_Because you are a rookie! _An inner voice screamed.

_That was never an excuse when your hands slipped off the bars, _another one sneered, _fall the right way and you can break your neck, whether you've been doing this thirty minutes or thirty years._

She was lucky she hadn't lost Joker's trust all together. She burned to think of what she'd written in the report. "_The Joker should be retried as mentally competent, declared sane, sent to state prison and executed._" God! Imagine if he knew - knew she'd been planning to make that recommendation!

He'd never trust her again.

And after - after what he'd revealed about Batman a few weeks ago. He'd even said it himself - _this is a turning point for us_.

Her manuscript was beginning to shape up very nicely. Considering the way the interaction had been developing up to that point, she'd decided it would be best to write it as a simple, straightforward account of their time together, with interlude chapters providing a critical analysis and insight into Joker's personality and nature.

But today. Today was really the start of something special. He wouldn't know it, of course, but it was her way of atoning for what she had almost done. She couldn't quite brush the guilt away. She only hoped he appreciated its significance.

At precisely three on the dot, Ethan and Ross entered, Joker between them, smiling brightly at her. Ethan and Ross' scowls were even more pronounced than usual, and she knew why.

Joker was not restrained in a straitjacket. He had simple cuffs on his wrists instead. Ethan unhooked them and attached them to the rings on either side of the couch, through which the straightjacket straps had previously gone. His ankles were cuffed down as usual. Now, instead of pinned down and crossed over his body, Joker's wrists lay down by their proper side. It would be an infinitely more comfortable position for him. He even had a little extra chain for free movement; he could lift his hands and gesture.

She had felt bad going over Joan's head. But she knew Joan would refuse without hesitation. She'd called a meeting with Joan and Doctor Arkham together, and while her respect for Doctor Arkham had never been quite the same since she discovered his indifference to mistreatment of the inmates at the hands of the guards, she knew he was the only one who could grant her this request. So she had given them her proposal. Joan had immediately said absolutely not, of course, but Doctor Arkham had been interested in the reasoning why.

"Joker and I are at a very delicate part of our Doctor-patient relationship," she'd explained, having carefully rehearsed the words earlier. "He is beginning to trust me more, to open up to me. He has never been anything but completely courteous and polite whilst in session and I believe that his posture of restraint does not engender an environment of trust and relaxation conducive to him feeling comfortable enough to fully confide in me." She'd almost blushed as she'd said the words. They'd looked so smart when written down, but spoken out loud they felt clumsy and pretentious. Too late, now. "I do believe that if we show him a certain degree of compromise, he would very well be inclined to meet us half-way."

She carefully used the word, 'we'. Doctor Arkham had noted it.

"Very well," he said. "But you must have the panic button in hand at all times, and whatever you do, absolutely on no account cross the yellow line surrounding the couch."

And she had promised.

When Ethan and Ross left, Joker lifted one hand, the chains clinking, and waved at her. "Is this your doing, Doc?"

She smiled at him. "When a patient shows progress, he is entitled to privileges. You should be no different."

He laughed. "You shoulda seen those bozos' faces when old Jeremiah gave 'em the order. Coupla real flycatchers. Hey that reminds me of something, Doc."

He sat up straighter, the chains making a slippery chinking sound, and she was suddenly aware of how much _more_ of him there seemed to be, now he had this new freedom of movement, how much more vivid and large his actions seemed. _He's chained to the couch and the couch is bolted to the floor_, she reminded herself, hoping she had not visibly started.

"When I was just a kid, we lived on top of this big ole hill in the stix. You know the type, steep as a cliff, old dirt road. Musta been a coupla miles long. Anyway, I'd get my bike out, ride out from the barn, cycle steadily onto the road, pushing hard with my lean little boy legs. Sitting up in my seat, you know how we all used to do. Cycle until the edge of that hill came into sight, pick up pace. Feel the first stirring of butterflies in my gut. You know what I'm talking about, Doc, you've done it too. Have the urge to turn back, it wasn't too late, I could just steer the handlebars off to the left, go back the other way. Back home to safety. But I never would. And with breakfast churning in my gut and my heart in my throat, I'd come right up to the top of that hill, and the road would fall away from beneath me, my front wheels would hover in the air - and for a moment, Doc - a very short moment - ha ha - I could believe I was flying. Then the bike would go over, the front wheels would hit the dirt, the back wheels would follow and my feet would come off the pedals and wheeeeeeeeeee!" He suddenly lifted his feet off the couch, struck his arms straight in front of him and his expression became one of giddy glee. "Off I went, a hundred miles an hour, out of control, all the way down that dirt hill, watching as the bottom of it got closer and closer, the pedals spinning so fast they were like a blur. Knowing there was no going back now, that I was in it until the end. No way to get control of the pedals, gripping the handlebars for dear life, while the wind whipped my hair back and battered my face. Hee hee hee!"

She could feel it, could feel the plunge in her stomach as she went over the edge, her legs stuck out straight as the pedals whipped around, grazing the backs of her calves, her ponytail coming loose in the wind.

"I used to love to open my mouth up wide," He continued, still chuckling to himself, the chains clanking as he gestured animatedly. He was so _alive_. "As I went down. Open it as wide as I could, feel the air slash against the wet insides of my mouth. And one day, as I'm hurtling down, with my gob wide open, what should happen but a grasshopper flies in! And not just any grasshopper, Doc, but a biggie! He musta been three or four inches, that little bug, and he got stuck in my mouth, vertically behind my teeth." Joker mimed for her, his legs still stuck out straight, one hand gripping the invisible handlebars, the index finger of his other wedged in behind his top teeth. "Ahnd Ah Wath Wideng Ahlong lyke thith ugggghh uggggh uggggghhh!" He boggled his eyes and mimed distress and despite herself she began to laugh. Joker removed his finger and grinned at her. "He was still there when I got to the bottom, and it was all I could do to keep control of the damn bike. Still, I went flying off the road, right into the fields and that damn bug was _still_ there, wedged behind my teeth! Ha ha ha ha! Can you imagine it, Doc?" She could, and it was adorable. A little boy, peddling frantically with bulging eyes and wide-opened mouth, a grasshopper stuck behind his teeth. Funnily enough, she imagined Joker as a young boy with white skin and green hair - it was hard to imagine him any other way.

"Finally," Joker wiggled about in his chair. "I stuck a finger in," And he did so, "Ahnd thlicked it!" He mimed flicking the bug out and she felt herself dissolve into helpless giggles. "And then I rode straight into a haystack! Doc, you shoulda been there! Ha ha ha ha ha!" And The Joker threw back his head and laughed with her.

She felt tears well up in her eyes, felt her sides begin to ache. She shouldn't be laughing like this. No. It was just - every time she pictured it - it was just such a delicious visual. It belonged in an old movie. It was outrageous. It was so silly! And it just felt so good! And as they continued to laugh together, Joker lifting a hand to his forehead and placing another one on his stomach, and she bent double in her chair, she felt herself over taken by hysteria. By that helpless hilarity that could consume a person for not much reason at all. Finally, she was not laughing at the story at all, but laughing because she just couldn't help herself, the tears in her eyes as much from the pain in her ribs as from merriment and still she couldn't stop.

Every time she thought she was starting to get a hold of herself, she caught Joker's eyes and it set her off again, which would further set him off. It occurred to her, somewhere, that he was most likely laughing _at_ her laughing. But it didn't seem to matter.

All of a sudden, she understood, really understood, the expression 'dying of laughter'. If she didn't stop soon she might very well expire!

_There are worse ways to go,_ a strange voice said in the back of her head, and abruptly she stopped. That was the kind of thinking that got someone staying on the other side of the cell walls.

Joker took advantage to finish the story, distracting her from her thoughts. "Of course, my bike was totalled," He said. "The handlebars were completely bent out of shape. Had to wheel the thing home all the way back up that hill. Hid it in the barn behind some old tools, hoping my old man wouldn't find it." Then Joker paused. "He did." He finished quietly.

She felt herself arrested by that statement, by all it said without saying anything. There was something there. Something very significant. She waited, holding her breath, wondering if he would say anything else.

But he was silent, staring across the room at the far wall, something unnameable in his expression. She recalled suddenly their first session. How he had looked at her initially. 'Different', he'd called her.

Why?

She continued to wait. Finally Joker smiled a little and cast her a look that seemed endearingly self-conscious.

"Excuse me, Doc," he said apologetically.

"Oh, please don't apologise." She said hastily. "This is your safe space."

He blinked at her and his stunning purple eyes seemed somehow liquid. "Is it really?" He said softly.

She sat back against the warm leather of her chair. "What do you need me to do to convince you?" She asked him reasonably and he smiled. Something flickered across his eyes, but it was quickly gone.

"Just exactly what you have been doing, Doc. Just exactly that."

When he was gone she raced up stairs to her office to type everything up, heedless of the stares thrown her by several other doctors. A breakthrough! A real, honest-to-goodness breakthrough! He'd _confided_ in her, an actual story about his childhood! This was incredible - this was wonderful! This was - it was revolutionary!

It was quid pro quo, she was aware of that. She'd given him something, so he'd given her something in return. She wanted to sing, to dance, to throw up her notes and writhe beneath them like they were confetti. He'd understood! He'd appreciated the gesture - he'd _repaid_ it!

This was beyond her wildest dreams.

As she finished clacking away at the keys, she was struck with a realisation:

She simply couldn't put this particular revelation in her book.

Her hands dropped slowly from the keys, coming to rest in her lap as her shoulders sank and her brows knitted together. It was all the things she had come to Arkham to learn. And yet, he'd trusted her with it.

She couldn't betray that trust. Not anymore.

--

_Harley's line about Joker being retried and executed directly quoted from "Case Study" by Paul Dini and Alex Ross, available in Batman: Black and White Vol 2._

_Thanks to all reviewers and all unsigned reviewers - your support is very encouraging and I hope you continue to stick with the story and I meet your expectations. Your feedback is really valued, particularly on how the relationship is evolving, the pace and the structure, the believability, etc, etc. Thanks again!_


	15. Session 44: The Joker

**FOURTEEN**

**Week Twenty-Two: **_**Session 44 - The Joker**_

She was beaming at him, a wonderfully ripe, raw, unrestrained smile that illuminated her whole face.

He knew why. But he didn't say anything as Ethan and Ross chained him to the couch. He locked eyes briefly with Ethan and gave him a smug little smile as the guard's body blocked Doctor Quinzel's view of him. He knew Ethan would sooner see him in a full body cast than chained down like that. Too bad for Ethan. Mind you - Ethan would look pretty sexy in a full body cast. He made a mental note to somehow make that happen at some point in the future, then turned his attention to Doctor Quinzel.

"You're looking awfully chirpy, today, Doc." He said casually and she squirmed in her chair, that excited little wiggle she did whenever she was really pleased as punch about something.

"I understand your common room privileges have been reinstated," She beamed in response and he couldn't help but return the smile.

"Yeah, how 'bout that?" He said modestly and she wrinkled her nose at him in the cutest way possible.

"Now, come on." She said. "This is a cause for celebration! Over six months now you've been confined to your cell."

"I was in rather a lot of trouble after my last little… escapade." He conceded bashfully, fluttering his lashes at her, and she was so happy she couldn't help but giggle, oblivious to the full import of his words. How many dead was it that time - oh, he never really kept count!

"Not only your common room privileges," she continued, "But also your dining room privileges. You can have your meals with the other inmates. Joker!" She was so hopelessly happy, it was pathetic. "This is wonderful! It means you've been working really hard and putting a lot of effort into your progress. I'm so proud of you."

She was.

She really, really was.

He wasn't sure if he should laugh or cry.

Instead, he sat up on the couch, feeling the tug of the chains as they stopped him going any further, swivelling his torso towards her, grinning.

"Come on now, Doc." He said coaxingly. "I can't take all the credit."

Her cheeks went apple red. "What do you mean?" She asked him, a trifle shy and he lifted his hands in disbelief.

"It's all you, Doc!" He exclaimed. "You think I'm being good just because I've chosen to be? Please! It's hard to be good in a place like Arkham. It's you, Doc. You're what's keeping me on track. Helping me focus. Working things out with you has been -" and he took in a big deep breath and let it out all at once. " - well, it's been a real help."

She was helplessly touched, her softness quivering beneath her veneer of professionalism, a hand fluttering to her breast.

"I'm very pleased to hear that." She said softly. He chuckled and decided to drive things home a little harder.

"I've never had anyone just to - talk to before." He ducked his head, staring at the patch of leather couch between his carelessly strewn thighs. "Everyone is always trying to pick my mind apart. Find out what makes me tick. No one's ever just interested in _me_. But you. You have a sense of fun. You're interested. You and me - we just talk - like regular people." _Like no regular people ever have._

Her face was serious, her eyes wide, her mouth in a soft, compassionate line. "You've been needing that?"

"Doc," he half-laughed, ran a hand up through his hair; the chains clinked and jerked at his wrist. "I've been _dying_ for it."

He dared a glance at her from the corner of his eye and felt his heart leap at the sight of her transfixed little face, peaches and cream, soft and gentle. She was gazing at him with such pure softness he wanted to stamp his foot straight into her face, dirty it up.

_Give her a little more_, a mischievous voice urged him.

_I couldn't! _He protested half-heartedly. _Can't lay it on too thick._

_You know you want to! _Another voice chimed in. _Think of the laughs!_

_Oh, all right! _He conceded.

"I always wanted - well, maybe hoped is the better word - that Batman might be the one to listen to me. That he might give me the chance that you have."

He risked another little glance at her and she was nodding, interested and attentive but - but - _something was different._

He took a moment to reflect on it.

In the past whenever the topic of the Dork Knight had come up, she'd become transparently keen, dying to push him further on the subject, get him talking more and more about the caped vigilante.

He felt none of that from her now. Oh no. Now she just seemed concerned. Interested.

Just like a real Doctor would be.

Laughter burbled up in his throat and he lifted a hasty hand to smother it, making a choked little sound she mistook for another sort of emotion.

"You don't have to continue if you don't want to," she said gently and he turned his face away from her so she couldn't see the way his eyes bulged, how a grin snaked up his face.

"No," he said, recovering himself. "No, I need to talk about this. It's been a long time coming."

He let his head tip back on the couch, folded his hands on his stomach and stared up at the ceiling, reflecting for several long moments, while she waited with genuine patience.

"You see, Doc," he said finally, "I've told you before Batman is my straight man. This is true. He is. He is my perfect opposite. Order to my chaos. Do you see?"

Another quick glance and another serious nod from her.

"Y'see, everything we do is ultimately wrapped up in each other. That's the purpose we've made from our lives. And it just so happened that we complement each other perfectly. Precise opposition. So you would think dear old Ratman would have a little more appreciation of me, wouldn't you?" He allowed a note of hurt to creep into his voice, the merest flicker of a pout across his lips. "That he'd see that I'm here to balance him out as he does me. But no. He's completely narrow-sighted. Completely engrossed in his mission of righteousness."

His voice was rising, becoming more vicious and he paused to steady it before continuing more gently:

"But perhaps I shouldn't be so hard on him. Perhaps he is, at the end of the day, only fulfilling his role. Perhaps he cannot find humour in the little jokes I play because it is not his part - it's mine, and as my perfect opposite he cannot. But still." And he wiggled his shoulders petulantly against the couch. "It smarts. I do my best, you know. I am what I am and the very best I can be at it. I strive, yannow, Doc? I really strive. And he just seems to - to disregard it."

Her lower lip had fallen slack, and she had leaned forward in her chair, her arms crossed over her knees. At some point in the last few months she had stopped wearing those silly little school ties and no longer buttoned her blouse up all the way. He could see a generous portion of her cleavage now. She hadn't done the buttons up high enough.

Or maybe she'd done them up just enough.

"You've said before that you hate Batman," she encouraged him gently, no pushiness. "Is this the reason why - because you feel unappreciated by someone you consider your flipside?"

He lifted a hand to his forehead, twirled a lock of green hair around one finger. "Maybe," He replied, tugging it down over his eyes, staring at it. Then he abruptly smoothed it back and turned his head, grinning at her. "But that doesn't matter anymore, Doc. Cos I got you, now."

Doctor Quinzel didn't need blush, with how easily she turned red.

She sat straight back up, suddenly remembered her blouse and lifted an embarrassed hand to the buttons. "I'm sure you're aware other Doctors have speculated as to your interest in Batman. That it is homosexual or homoerotic in nature." It was the way she said it, so careful and nonchalant. She wanted to know, but not because she wanted to tell others. Oh no, she wanted to know for _herself_.

How had Doctor Quinzel suddenly got so interesting?

He couldn't resist letting a little more of himself come through in his rakish grin as he held her gaze and she squirmed, the colour still high in her cheeks.

"Oh, I absolutely admit I am completely besotted with our dear, Dark Knight," he purred, and her colour grew and something flickered in her eyes - oh what was it - _disappointment_. Heh! "I adore him, as much as I hate him. I'm quite comfortable with that. Batman isn't -" and he chuckled with delight, " - but of course he wouldn't be. But I'm sure, Doctor Quinzel, that you're not so narrow-minded as those other silly billies. You understand infatuation takes place on all sorts of levels, in all sorts of ways."

And he watched her through curious eyes as she squirmed and blushed brighter and thought to himself: _I just bet you do._

"I'd like to hear you explain it," She said softly and although she looked right at him, she did not look into his eyes.

Things were getting very interesting.

"Are you asking me if I'm a fag, Doc?" He whispered and her eyes flickered and she answered too quickly.

"I'm asking you to explain your relationship with Batman to me."

He laughed. How could he help it? "I've fucked men, if that's what you want to know."

"Only what you want to tell me." She was wretchedly uncomfortable now, crossing her legs tightly, her face completely scarlet and her eyes bright behind her useless reading glasses.

"I'm completely infatuated with Batman," He said frankly, "Fixated on him. Almost everything I do is designed to get his attention. Am I in love with him? In a way. Is it about sex? No, not at all. Do you understand, my dear Doc? You're so young, I keep forgetting. He's my match, my equal, my opposite. He's everything I'm not as equally as I'm everything he's not. We can't help but fit together. We need each other, and we feed each other. We keep each other balanced. Why else do you think he hasn't killed me after all this time?"

She widened her eyes, gaped at him. "Are you saying - are you saying that - you think Batman -" and she staggered over the words, " - _loves_ you?"

He threw back his head and screeched with laughter. "_Need_ is not the same as _love_, Doc," He managed to say when he'd got a hold of himself. "Batman hates me, make no mistake. He loathes me. As much as I love him. Like I keep telling you, it's the parts we have to play. I love him and have to keep on trying to kill him, and he hates me and has to keep on striving to _not_ kill me. Do you understand, little Doctor? Can you?"

She didn't, but she wanted to. He saw it in the way her chin quivered, the resolute set to her eyes. She was desperate for his approval. She wanted so much for him to believe in her, to think highly of her, that everything else she'd come here for was steadily fading behind the desire for him to Trust Her, and nothing more.

Doctor Quinzel was surprising him, after all.

--

_I really think Joker is aware of his and Batman's roles as comic book characters and how this makes them permanently and intrinsically linked in roles they are destined to play forever, and this is reflected in what he says to Harley in this chapter. _

_Also, Joker isn't being homophobic with his use of the word 'fag'. He's using an epithet he knows will make Harley more uncomfortable because of its harsh directness. I have him openly admit he screws boys too._

_I thought the chapters were getting better but the regular reviews have gone done - am I completely off the mark? MWAH._


	16. Session 50: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**FIFTEEN**

**Week Twenty-Five: **_**Session 50 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

Doctor Quinzel wanted to cheer and dance.

She had the urge to cartwheel down the corridor and finish off with a full twist, drop into splits, stand up, take a bow and say "ta-daaaaaa!"

She didn't, of course. She'd learned how to restrain herself.

It was never easy being the new kid on the block, but for some reason she had thought the Arkham doctors would be far more friendly to her. She was one of them - wasn't she?

She was supposed to be.

But the way most of them had behaved towards her - their faint incredulity and distant politeness - had been very discouraging.

She didn't understand. Why didn't they like her? She was a nice person. She was always friendly to new people and never judged anyone. People _always_ liked her. She'd always had heaps of friends. Plus, she had her grades. They were great grades - best in the state for five years! The way a few of them had flickered their eyes up and down her had given her a very uncomfortable, unsettled feeling - like maybe - maybe they _knew_.

No. That was ridiculous. They _couldn't_ know. No one knew.

And shouldn't they be more impressed she was taking on such a complex and difficult case like The Joker's?

They didn't seem impressed. If anything, they got colder.

But then, that morning, when she was getting her coffee, Doctor Andrews - who'd been the most stand-offish of them all - had come up and greeted her quite warmly.

"I understand The Joker's behaviour has markedly improved, Doctor Quinzel. Congratulations."

She'd beamed at him, so utterly thrilled at this overture of acceptance that she'd burst out with her usual refrain. "Oh, call me Harley! Everyone does!"

Doctor Andrews' pale, speckled skin had creased as he attempted a smile in response. "Er - thank you. Anyway, I've heard a rumour that he's been allowed out of his straitjacket in therapy. You aren't concerned?"

She couldn't restrain her pride. "No, not at all. He is still securely restrained, of course. But he's never done anything to cause me the slightest alarm."

Somehow, she'd forgotten the incident in which he'd nearly wiggled out of his straps.

"Well." Doctor Andrews had raised his eyebrows as though impressed. "Congratulations, again. I'll be keen to hear about your continued progress."

"Thank you, Doctor Andrews." She'd chirped and he'd nodded to her and moved away, choking a little on his mouthful of coffee. Poor guy must've taken a sip too quickly.

Finally! Someone besides Joan was starting to give her a little credit! Just because she was brand new to the whole gig, didn't mean she was an idiot! And Joker - oh, Joker, he was _working_ with her. Responding to her. In that instant it ceased to matter that Melissa, Becky and the others had stopped inviting her out on weekends. That the last weekend they'd gone out for Tam's Birthday - and hadn't invited her. That Becky was engaged - and she didn't know. No, none of that mattered now. She was on the path to greatness! And with greatness would come new friends - _better_ friends.

She couldn't conceal her enthusiasm when she went into session, greeting Ethan and Ross gaily, who nodded with slight bewilderment, and chirping a good afternoon to her patient.

He'd grinned at her. "Now. It positively warms my heart to see you in such a good mood, Doc. Any particular reason?"

Well, of course she couldn't tell him she'd felt doubted by the other Doctors - how could he respect her? "It's a beautiful day and I've got a session with my favourite patient!" She responded instead and his eyes had widened and then he'd laughed.

"It certainly is lovely to see someone appreciating it with such a beautiful big smile. You do have such a dazzling smile."

She felt her cheeks flush, dropped her head a little. He peered at her.

"And now I've wiped it off your face! I'm sorry, Doc - should I not have noticed? But you know, a smile is quite almost my very favourite thing! How can I not notice?"

"Oh it's fine," She assured him. "I guess I'm just - well, people don't really seem to smile in here, do they?"

He nodded gravely. "Astute of you, Doctor. Indeed they do not. It's no wonder I'm so depressed."

She looked at him enquiringly. "You've been experiencing depression?"

He pulled his mouth down, gazed at her from boggled eyes. "How could I not, in such an artistically stifling environment? It's positively wretched, Doc. I feel my creative spirit being slowly suffocated within these gloomy walls. Practically the only succour offered me is our little chats. And you've been so much more ready to smile lately. "

"Well, I am glad to hear that." She said sincerely. "Would you then say it's crucial to your state of mind to be able to artistically express yourself?"

Joker widened his eyes expressively, moved his hands about. "Absolutely, dear Doctor! By nature I am an artist - a creator. It's who I am. What I am. It's as essential to me as breathing!"

He finished speaking and she sat there a moment before catching herself. For a moment there she'd been distracted by the fervour with which he spoke, how passionate his movements were. She pushed her glasses up her nose.

"You've mentioned your - artistic inclinations before. Tell me what they mean to you."

He smiled quietly, then gestured with one hand. "They mean everything to me, Doc. I have visions - strong, beautiful, powerful visions - and I am compelled to see them come to life."

"Your - crimes?"

He pouted. "I prefer the term - 'capers' or 'larks'. 'Crimes' - such a gloomy, unimaginative word. Does not really reflect the true merriment and adventure of my little escapades."

"You say that these - capers - are a way of expressing your artistic vision."

"Unleashing my creative spirit," He areed. "I'm a very creative person, Doc. Really. You should hear me play the trombone. Heh. But seriously, when I look upon the world, I see a canvas, a beautiful, marvellous expanse of possibility. Not blank, no, but built up with the efforts of those who've gone before me, their own visions and dreams. But gradually, their paltry scribblings are becoming obscured beneath my own masterful efforts."

Once again she felt herself begin to drift away on the tide of his words. He was so… fascinating. The way he viewed the world. Could he really mean it? She struggled to stay focused, to direct the discussion instead of just letting him speak.

"So - you see your activities as works of art?" She tried.

"No." He dropped his hand back onto his stomach and said a little snappishly. "I don't 'see' them that way - they _are_. That's all human history is, Doc, one long series of creative endeavours. And mine just so happen to be the pinnacle."

She cocked her head to the side. He had such a vivid imagination, such an endless sense of creativity. Incomprehensible, the way he thought - what must it be like inside his head? Seeing the world that way. She tried to imagine it, but failed.

"Could you please explain to me a little further what precisely makes them so?" She asked him and he shifted on the couch, raising one knee a little.

"What is art? It is observation, made material. It provides commentary on society, on life, on the world at large. You see? This is what I do, when I play out one of my brilliant pieces of theatre for the world to see."

She was trying to see. Striving to see things as he did. Had ever such a mind existed before? Those who had done similarly heinous things - serial killers, mass murderers, war criminals - generally had some driving conviction behind it, or compulsive need. They had never detached from their acts so much to refer to them simply as 'art'.

"So -" she said slowly. "When you kill people, it acts as a commentary on society?"

He beamed. "You're a natural, Doc! I knew we had a kinship."

She flushed, uncomfortable with that for several reasons - not least because she didn't understand precisely _how_ it was a commentary, or what it was a commentary _of_.

"You've mentioned before, feeling unappreciated for what you do. Is it important to you, to be appreciated?"

"Part of the problem," He said haughtily, "Is that my vision can be a little radical for the proletariats. All the truly great revolutionary artists have had that issue - the ignorant fearing the different and magnificent, what is beyond their miniscule comprehension, that might require them to _think_, to shake themselves out of their somnambulant torpors!" He pouted. "But I refuse to dumb down!" He continued somewhat ferociously. "I will _not_ pander. I will not compromise on my muse. _He _never compromises for me, after all." And he tittered gleefully.

He was becoming quite animated, wiggling on the couch, sitting up and sitting down and she decided to steer the conversation back into calmer waters.

"You've been noted for being quite an avid reader with diverse artistic and musical taste. Do you draw inspiration from any particular sources?" Oh no - was that the wrong way to ask the question - did it imply condoning?

He settled back down against the couch, tipped his head back. "Why would I need to when life provides the greatest inspiration of all? Nothing can compare to that, Doc. Nothing at all. Just the mere thought of it and all its ridiculous wonder thrills me. I just want to get out there and strut, work the crowd, create a sight as such has never been seen!"

"So, in your belief, the world is, as Shakespeare said, 'a stage and all of us actors upon it'?

He flicked his eyes to her. "'Players', Doc. 'All the men and women merely players.'" She felt a moment of embarrassment - oh no, did he think her uncultured now? How humiliating! "And yes, it's true. We all play our parts. You do, as well, Doc. Though you're trying to fit into a role that just doesn't suit you."

She started back a little. "Excuse me?" What could he mean by that?

He quirked an eyebrow, gave her a little look of incredulity. "Don't be coy, Doc. This prim and proper routine you've got going on. The sedate, serious little Doctor. It isn't you. I saw the way you were wiggling about when I walked in. You're holding back, aren't you, moulding yourself into something else? You've got the heart of Judy Holliday but you're striving to be Greta Garbo. That's unnatural, Doc. And it's crushing you. I can see it. Laughter and joy is your natural state but you smother it beneath pointless conservatism. Don't forget, there are no rules on the stage of life, we have our parts but the script is all improv. And frankly, some of us are more versatile than others. Stick to what you know, dear Doctor." She felt herself flooded with indignant dismay, her lower lip sagging open like a hooked fish's. She sputtered, and he grinned at her, a sly, knowing grin that saw altogether too much. "Why are you upset, Doc? I'm just telling it the way I see it. Really, I'm giving you a compliment. Too many serious people try to be funny. A funny girl like you shouldn't try to be serious. You should just be yourself."

She recovered herself, realising too late she'd revealed too much. "I'm not upset." She said firmly, darting her eyes across from him to the wall. "I just think that perhaps you've misinterpreted me."

He raised both eyebrows, pushed his lips together innocently. "Have I? I apologise then, Doctor. I guess sometimes I can get carried away with my vision - it was just - I was so sure…"

"I understand." She said in clipped tones. "But I think you were mistaken."

And she hid her shaking hands in her lap.

--

_To the reviewer 'Someone Who Likes This Story': thank you for leaving a review! It obviously took a lot out of you to leave a review and I'm deeply appreciative and touched that you did. I would email you personally but I don't have an email for you so I'll just leave you this message here. Thank you! If you would like to chat anytime, feel free to get in touch with me through my profile page._


	17. Session 53: The Joker

**SIXTEEN**

**Week Twenty-Seven: **_**Session 53 - The Joker**_

"Did you have any pets growing up, Doc?"

She looked up from her notes. "No." She admitted. "I wanted one. But I wasn't allowed."

"Why not?"

Too late she realised what she'd revealed. Her eyes widened, she shifted then tried to backtrack. "Well, we didn't have the space. How about you? Did you have any pets?"

He chuckled, pointed his toes and stretched them, arched his back. "Oh yeah, I sure did. I had this little bunny rabbit called Mister Flopsy. Heh. Don't blame me, Doc, I was only six. He was one of those lovely little floppy eared ones, brown and black with a little speck of white on his nose. Boy, I loved that rabbit. I used to walk him around on a leash. Can you imagine it, Doc?"

And a smile flickered across her face. He wondered how she imagined him as a child. He could barely imagine himself.

"And this rabbit slept with me next to my pillow, sat under my chair at the dinner table, cuddled on my lap while I did my homework, and galloped beside me as I ran through the nearby fields. The games we played! Sometimes he was my valiant stead while I slaughtered the mighty dragon - don't look alarmed Doc, I never sat on him, you know how powerful the imagination of a child is - other times he was my wounded war buddy and I was dragging him back to the safety of the trenches. And again, he could be Watson to my Holmes or Tonto to my Lone Ranger. The point was, Doc, he was always there for me. He was my best buddy. And I loved that little bunny, maybe more than anything, except perhaps my mother. Because of him it didn't matter than there were holes in all my pants or that my shirt was missing several buttons. It didn't matter that I never had new toys or milk money like the other kids. I didn't care that in winter I only had one thin little blanket to sleep beneath or that we lived on cabbage and potatoes. None of that mattered, cos I had Mister Flopsy and he was my gosh-darn very best pal."

He let out a long sigh, and pushed a hand up through his hair.

"It must've been a very special relationship." Doctor Quinzel's sweet, piping little voice, grating on his ears. "How long do rabbits live for?"

He pulled his mouth down, pondered the question. "Y'know. I'm not sure, Doc. I never found out."

In his peripheral vision he caught motion, knew her lips had parted. "What happened?"

He sighed again, shut his eyes. "It was the darndest thing. One day, I just couldn't find him. I went everywhere, all up and through the house, out to the barn, into the fields, calling and calling for him. Nothing. Well, you can imagine, Doc. I was distraught. I couldn't think for fear. What if he were trapped somewhere? What if a neighbourhood dog had got him? What was I going to do without my pal? I searched high and low for him everywhere until dinner time and when I went in, dishevelled, dirty and absolutely miserable, my father slapped a dish of some strange, pale looking meat in front of me and said proudly: 'There son! A decent meal for a change! Nothin' finer than rabbit stew!'"

He heard Doctor Quinzel gasp, caught the movement of her hand as it flew up to her mouth. He turned his head away, the corners of his mouth twitching.

_You can always laugh later_, he reminded himself, and sniffed instead. Not too loud. Just enough.

"What did you do?" Doctor Quinzel's voice was soft, fearful.

"Well. It was difficult, Doc. There was my father, grinning down at me, beer in hand, wondering why I wasn't immediately falling to with gusto. And slowly that grin turned into a glower and I knew I had no choice. Not when he had _that _look. So I managed to clean my plate while we all sat there in silence, except for my Dad who went on and on about what a hearty meal we were finally having. Then I very quietly excused myself, got up from the table, went outside and vomited it all up."

They were silent for a long moment. He could feel Doctor Quinzel's wretched compassion like a soft mist about him, stretching the expanse between them. He turned his head to the ceiling and swallowed heavily, knowing she would watch the way his adam's apple moved up and down in his throat as he did so.

Then he glanced at her, his expression grave and perhaps just a little imploring. Needing her understanding.

She was sitting there, the silly, sweet thing, leaning forward in her chair, her face the very picture of sorrowful compassion, her pretty red lips slightly parted and her brows creased with concern.

"That must've been very traumatic for you." She said quietly.

He choked a little, shut his eyes and then opened them to deliver the final blow:

"I haven't eaten rabbit since."

He could swear he actually saw her heart break a little. God, this was so beautiful. So perfect.

"You know…" she began tentatively, "… some of the asylum programs sponsor pet therapy. The participants are given a pet to take care of. It's been very helpful in some cases. Would you like me to enquire for you?"

Oh God. He could just imagine the sort of things he'd do to a stupid little animal when he was bored, and then the whole game would be blown.

He shook his head gravely. "No. I appreciate it, Doctor, but no. I - I hadn't let myself think of Mister Flopsy for years. I don't think I'm ready."

She nodded sympathetically. "I understand. I can only imagine the depth of betrayal you must've felt at your father's hands."

"Well," He licked his lips. "We were _very_ poor."

She nodded again. "Did this incident remain unresolved?"

He pressed his lips together, swallowed again. "How do you resolve something like that?"

--

_Though of course dear little Dr Quinzel doesn't think so, this chapter should be funny. At least, I find it so, especially as I imagine Joker delivering it. Hope you do too!_

_To Someone Who Likes This Story - check out the JokerxHarley community on live journal. You are not alone! community (dot) livejournal (dot) com (slash) jokerxharley_

_To all other reviewers - huge thank yous. Your support means so much to me and your words touch and honour me. Your constructive criticism is welcome. I'm glad I'm hitting the mark for many of you. I hope you continue to enjoy it!_

_As for the topic of Joker's sexuality... I don't really see what he said as him truly disclosing anything. I don't think sex is a particularly important matter to Joker, particularly before Harley came into his life and to a good extent after she did as well. But I do think he will use sex if it's convenient to him, as a power play, or to get something. **It's Joker Time** is one example, where he carried on with some blatant sexual behaviour with a woman and some subtler stuff with a man, and both instances were about power and obtaining certain perks he wanted. I think in the case of the other chapter, he just liked watching Harley squirm. :)_


	18. Session 59: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**SEVENTEEN**

**Week Thirty: **_**Session 59 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

Her disappointment was acute.

No, it wasn't just disappointment. It was betrayal. Humiliation. And anger, too.

She sobbed behind her desk, her face in her hands.

She could feel how hot her cheeks were, that her neck and the collar of her blouse was damp. When she leaned back and looked at her hands they were smeared with mascara.

She looked at the clock. Two-thirty pm. God, she had a session with him in half-an-hour. She couldn't go in a wreck like this!

She'd been so ecstatic when she'd told Joan. They'd dropped their debriefing sessions back to just once a week, and she'd burst in the previous Friday, brimming with the news. Well, she hadn't wanted to say anything the first time, in case it was a fluke. But several weeks had passed and she was sure.

"He's talking about his childhood!" She'd exclaimed, unable to conceal her excitement.

Joan, however, had not been thrilled. Her initial expression of fond amusement as Harleen had bounced in, aching to share, fell into one of concern and reticence.

'What sort of things is he telling you?" She queried flatly.

Harleen had been taken aback at her coldness. "Well, I can't tell you the details. Doctor-patient privilege."

"Of course you can't tell me details. I'd like to know what sort of stories, though. To put it bluntly, Harley - are they sob stories? Has he told you about an alcoholic father, a prostitute mother - abusive uncle, bullying at school - anything of that nature?"

Her previously buoyant heart had sunk like a stone to her stomach. "No," she'd said, unable to disguise her hurt. "No, there's been nothing like that." And she'd lifted her chin and glared at Doctor Leland, who hadn't immediately apologised but gazed cool and calm into Harleen's eyes with her own chocolate brown ones.

She wasn't telling the whole truth of course. There'd been hints about that sort of thing, but he'd never said anything outright. And it wasn't as if she hadn't read his complete file! She knew his tricks! Why didn't Joan see - the very fact he _hadn't_ said anything outright just further reinforced his trust in her. He wasn't trying to take her for a ride - he was waiting for the right moment!

But although Joan had a moment later forced a smile and congratulated her on her progress, the rest of the session had felt strained and Harleen answered queries flatly and without elaboration, as though she were back in the principal's office.

But that hadn't been the worst of it.

She had forgone her usual morning run that day to come in early and get some further reading and note-typing done. Doctor Andrews had been talking to Doctor Moya in the staff kitchen over filter coffee.

"I don't know what Jeremiah was thinking, assigning that little upstart to The Joker. Fresh out of university - and grades or not, she's not ready. Speaking of those grades, have you ever had a conversation with her? Frankly, I find it difficult to believe those grades were earned off her back - _on_ her back maybe." And the two Doctors had snickered nastily together. "Really, I give it another month before we have to deal with her corpse. Have you heard - he's only being chained down by the ankles now!"

"Disgraceful," Doctor Moya drawled, lifting her cigarette to her lips. Harleen had stood outside in the corridor, frozen with horror. "Thinks she's cleverer than the rest of us. I studied at Oxford. A degree from Gotham University counts for nothing. And do you know how she got there? On an _athletics scholarship_!"

And the two doctors had laughed again.

"If I didn't know The Joker better, I'd say she was screwing him to keep him behaved." Andrews spat, and, unable to hear anymore she'd turned on her heels and taken off down the corridor.

She'd known, of course. Known most of them didn't really consider her 'one of them'. Oh, they were friendly enough. Polite. But she'd seen them. Seen them looking her up and down with their hard, critical eyes. Noticing the scuffs on her shoes, the tightness of her skirts. Didn't they understand her uni debts were mountainous - that an intern's salary didn't pay well, even worse than an Arkham doctor's did? But it was more than that. They just looked down on _her_.

They thought she was nothing more than a cheap, stupid, phoney _bimbo_.

Quarter to three. Fifteen minutes.

She'd show them. Damnit, somehow. Somehow she would prove them _wrong_.

She ducked down to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face until something resembling her normal colour had returned, then patted herself dry. No time for makeup, except a quick slick of gloss.

She was a little late; he was already there, chained by the ankles to the couch, Ethan and Ross gazing at her enquiringly as she ducked in. She offered them a quick smile as apology.

"Sorry, guys, got caught up with some notes. I'm sorry, Joker."

"Don't sweat it, Doc."

After the guards had left she opened up her leather notebook and uncapped her gold-plated fountain pen, the one that was engraved with her initials, flicking frantically through the notebook pages to find her place, carefully not looking at her patient.

"What's up, Doc?" The Joker's voice was gentle, soft and perceptive. She cringed beneath it.

"Not a lot," She said with an effort. "Had a quiet weekend, which is kinda becoming the norm these days. I'm so tired on the weekends." She was babbling without realising it, not wanting to think about how her phone hadn't rung for a couple of weeks. She thought about calling her friends, but always chickened out. She didn't want him to know how lonely she was on weekends. "I don't know why. I guess this job just takes it outta me. How are you?"

She was scribbling on one of the pages, not words but strange, twirling lines, looping around each other, like she used to do during lectures. Her hands were shaking a little.

"Well, to be honest, I'm feeling a little concerned about my Doctor."

She swallowed, hard. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, she's rushed in here almost five minutes late, with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks and hasn't looked at me once since she sat down. Wouldn't you be concerned, Doc?"

She looked up at him then.

And when she did, she felt something upend inside of her.

She'd delved into the archives and taken files home on the weekend. She wasn't supposed to, but she just couldn't help herself. She was completely fixated on this project now, writing reams and reams of notes and observations, theories and philosophies on the enigmatic soul that was The Joker.

Amongst the files there had been photographs of him from several of his last medicals.

It had been wrong to look at them. She knew that. It was a violation. A betrayal of his trust.

But she just couldn't help herself.

She hadn't looked long. Just a few quick glances, then she'd buried them back into the box, her cheeks hot, and opened a bottle of white wine and put on a Marx Brothers film. She'd never even seen any before he became her patient, but they were just the way to spend a lazy Friday night.

Now when she looked at him, she couldn't help but reflect on those photos. His stark, white nakedness and its pure beauty. Without the straitjacket she was desperately aware of him, of his long, lean torso, wiry arms and huge hands, the legs that seemed to stretch on forever, folds of scratchy cotton loose on them.

She shouldn't have looked at them.

"It's nothing," She answered finally. "Thank you for your concern, but we're not here to talk about me. If you like, we can put this session off until Thursday -" Even as she spoke the words, something inside her protested. She wondered if this was how he had felt, longing for someone to talk to. For someone just to listen.

"Oh Doc, I couldn't do that." His voice was still so soft. Like velvet. Like she could wrap herself up in it. "I couldn't walk out on you like this. You've always been there for me."

She gulped, a lump had risen in her throat. "It wouldn't - it wouldn't be -" she stammered, "- be ri - right." She shut her mouth tightly, swallowing against the tears that threatened to burst. "Please excuse me." Her gaze blurring, tears slipping over her cheeks despite herself, she raised miserable eyes to him. His face, what she could see of it through the haze, was wonderfully compassionate, shining with understanding.

"Let it out, Doc." He counselled her gently, and it was like a dam broke.

She sobbed in great heaving, high-pitched gasps while he watched her from the couch. She couldn't quite believe she still had so much left in her, after she'd spent half the day bawling alone in her office.

But maybe that was the thing. Who could she talk to, here, about her humiliation? They were most likely all in on it. Even - and her sobs grew harder - even Joan. Which of her friends - who she never saw anymore - could she tell, when she'd made such a big thing about being an up and coming young Doctor at Arkham Asylum? Maybe in the end it was just such a damned relief to cry in front of someone who - who - _cared_.

Finally, her weeping dissipated to the occasional sniffle and she felt cleansed, if somewhat embarrassed.

"Now," Joker said affably, wiggling against the back of the couch. "What's this all about?"

She shouldn't tell him, of course. But who else could she tell?

He laughed when she described what Doctor Andrews has said, and she'd felt something cold and hard grip her heart. He saw her expression and was quick to reassure her:

"Don't look so mortified, Doc - didn't you know? Andrews was my Doctor once. Oh yeah," He said to her startled expression, "You know how long he lasted? Two days! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!"

And she'd laughed along with him, delighted and vengeful.

"It's true, Doc. Old Andrews couldn't handle Yours Truly. He's just sore, Cupcake. Don't listen to that old grumble-bum. It's just a case of the Green-Eyed-Monster. From all of them! How long have we been seeing each other now?"

She sniffled. "Almost nine months."

"There you go!" He said triumphantly. "And you're neither insane nor dead. They're just jealous, Punkin Pie! Let them talk! You and me know the score."

You and me! Her heart had leapt and she'd felt _so silly _about her self-doubt_. _

He looked from side to side, smirking slyly.

"You wanna know something else about Doc Andrews?"

And despite herself, she'd nodded, eager.

Joker sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch, leaning towards her conspiratorially. "Well," he said in a stage whisper, "Old Doc Andrews is getting a little thin on top." He indicated with waggling fingers above his head. "Has a toupee, special made. He was rude to me in our first session together. Asked all sorts of very inappropriate questions. So when he came down for observation in the common room, I happened to be playing pool with Harvey. And when Andrews' back was turned, I manipulated my cue _just so_ and knocked the toupee from his head, in front of all the inmates!"

She burst out into reams of giggles. The image of pompous, squat Andrews floundering, trying to retrieve his toupee from the floor while all the inmates laughed at him was vibrant and delicious in her mind's eye.

"Of course," Joker mused, "That was when we still had the pool table and the cues. There was that incident I had with - oh, you don't want to hear about that."

He glanced at her and cocked his head, as she continued to giggle.

"You feeling a bit better, Doc?"

She coughed, pressed her lips together. "Yes, thank you."

He grinned at her, clearly amused by something. "Illegitimi non carborundum, Doc. If I lose you, who will I have?"

He needed her! Her heart went out to him. She was beginning to understand the loneliness he had been through for so many years.

She had to see this through - for his sake.

--

"_Illegitimi non carborundum" is dog-latin for "don't let the bastards grind you down"._

_Thank you, beautiful people. You are making writing this story such a joy with your feedback and support and astute observations. Please keep it coming - even if it's to tell me I'm headed off-track!_


	19. Session 64: The Joker

**EIGHTEEN**

**Week Thirty-Two: **_**Session 64 - The Joker**_

He wanted her. Badly.

He wasn't altogether sure what that meant. But he knew that he did.

He was making her into something. He wasn't sure yet, but she was definitely beginning to take form beneath his ministrations and he was keen to see what became of her.

He hungered to open her up, to free whatever it was she concealed inside. And to possess it.

Since her little breakdown the other week, she'd at once become more relaxed and more restrained around him. She was careful to let no further emotion show, but he sensed that she was lighter somehow - that the boundaries had been pushed back even further. She was less careful about precisely what she said, even if she didn't betray - or didn't _think_ she betrayed - whatever was going on beneath.

And what was going on beneath was turmoil. Several times he'd caught her staring at him with something like longing in her eyes. Holding back was getting harder for her. He knew she ate her lunches alone. He'd asked her if she'd seen Doctor Andrews again since that day and she'd blushed and mumbled that she'd been busy. She was avoiding them. Shamed. She was afraid they were right, of course.

She wanted him to tell her they were wrong.

There was need growing in her, blossoming up beneath her silly cheap blouses, pinkening her skin, making her eyes bright, her knuckles white. It was consuming her.

It excited him.

Her mind was so tender, such a ripe playground for him to toy with. The way she'd broken down and cried, as though she could really trust him.

And there was the rub, wasn't it?

Why had she told _him_? Why had she shown such rampant emotion to him? Not only was he her patient - he was _The Joker_. She _must_ know. She wasn't stupid.

The answer had come to him immediately, of course. She didn't have anyone else.

But that didn't make sense. A pretty, attractive, friendly girl like Doctor Quinzel was bound to have lots of friends.

So she had friends, but she felt alone.

Why did she feel alone?

She'd gone to University on a gymnastics scholarship, but had become a doctor instead.

She wore reading glasses, though she didn't need the real thing. She wore cheap red bras beneath white blouses and black skirts that were a little too short and a little too tight.

Six months into her internship she'd secured herself as **his** Doctor.

As he reclined on his cot, waiting for Ethan and Ross to come and collect him, Joker stared up at the ceiling of his cell, connecting all the pieces together. And grinned to himself.

She looked especially pretty that day. She was clearly exhausted - there were shadows beneath her eyes, and her hair was slightly disarrayed. And though she smiled brightly at him, he could see that it was a strain. She was wearing thin. No doubt she'd been burning the midnight oil in the effort to prove Doctor Andrews and company wrong.

And he knew, too, that as lovely and patient as he'd been with her, the very effort of keeping up with him would be taking its toll. Staying on constant alert, slowly relenting, having the very force of his personality tax her energy, pondering the half-truths and tantalising hints he gave her. The tiny glimpses into his psyche, the need to remember he was a killer conflicting with the delightful stories he concocted about a childhood that might've been lived somewhere by someone. Longing to steer the conversation onto the topics of bats and bloodied smiles, struggling not to push too hard too quickly.

He had to struggle not to do the same.

"I'd like to do a word association exercise with you today, Joker." She said and of course he'd agreed, amiably. He loved these games!

So it began.

"Family." She said.

"Pineapple." He responded.

"Fruit."

"Loco."

"Insane."

"Love."

"Desire."

"Laughter."

"Joke."

"System."

"Brake."

"Revolution."

"Beginning." Her chin was in her hands, staring at him thoughtfully, trying to understand the connections his mind was making. He locked his eyes onto hers.

"You."

She breathed in sharply, through her nose.

"Letter." She said crisply and he smirked.

"Truth." He went on.

"Trust."

"Chance."

"Risk."

"Degrees."

"University."

"Goal."

"Win." Her voice sounded weak.

"Power." He didn't care.

"Glory."

"Fame."

"Respect."

"Admiration."

"Love." She swallowed and blinked.

"Tenderness."

"Raw."

"Pain."

"Wound."

He tried one more. "Weapon."

Her voice cracked as she spoke: "Sex."

They sat in silence for several, long moments as she blinked away tears and he stared at her. He was hungry, hungry for her. There was a keen, bestial desire in the base of his stomach. He could tear her apart now. She'd given it to him, right then and right there, on top of everything else. Her mind was his, to rip to shreds. It wouldn't take much.

Ah, but then. Then the game would be over. She'd run crying back home to Mommy and Daddy and probably wind up being a hairdresser or something. Amusing, in the long run, but not for right now.

"Talk to me, Doctor Quinzel," He said finally, his voice soft and warm.

"I can't," she whimpered and he bit down on his irritation.

"Then let me talk to you." He said smoothly. "All your life you've strived to be the best at something, and most of the time you've succeeded, only to be thwarted by someone else. You were on your way to the Olympics when you got injured and spent enough time off that you were considered a has-been by the time you got back. From there you managed to secure yourself a scholarship to Gotham University, where you spent seven years obtaining your Doctorate, only to come here and find that the Doctors you thought would welcome you are sniggering behind your back because you have the misfortune of being young and attractive. You immediately seek out the world's most dangerous man as your patient - no time for false modesty - and despite all odds, are somehow granted permission from the higher ups. You're a popular girl, but your friends are all jealous of your success and you have less time for them now you're a career woman. There's no one you can trust here, because if you admit any weakness they might use it against you. " He grinned smugly and propped his chin on one hand, his elbow resting against his belly. "And your family couldn't care less."

She had balled her fists so tightly her knuckles were white, and her face was pale and stark beneath the dim overhead light, her jaw grinding hard as she listened to him silently.

"The only thing you want out of life, the one teensy, eensy, weensy little thing you're asking for, is respect. It's not much to ask for, is it Harleen? So why is it that it's so damn hard for you to get it? That's what you've been asking yourself, isn't it? And well might you ask yourself, Harleen. You have done every conceivable thing to get it, but you're still not quite there. Do you want to know why, Harleen?"

She was shaking her head frantically, silently protesting _no_, her lower lip now trembling, her brows knotting together. But he wasn't going to stop there:

"Because you're different, Harleen. You're not like them. You're not common and paltry and unimaginative. You have passion. You have vision. You have ambition. You go after what you want and you get it. You're real, Harleen. More real than any of them can ever hope to be. And that's why they don't respect you. Because if they did they'd have to admit that you're superior to them in every way."

She was gaping at him now, her bright blue eyes sparkling with tears, her chewed lower lip hanging open. Whatever she had expected him to say, it had not been that.

"The only people who can dare to respect you are those on your level. I respect you, Harleen. You're not alone. I'm here. I'm here for you. You and me, we're two of a kind."

She blinked, finally, and two tears poured down her cheeks, tinged dark with her mascara.

"Ho - ho - how," She stammered, and it was oh so hard not to smile. "How do you know all these things? How can you see them?"

How indeed. Through information she'd inadvertently let slip, pieced together. Through observation more keen than she could ever comprehend.

"I just told you," He said softly, holding her gaze as she trembled in her chair. "We're two of a kind."

She sniffled, wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, hopelessly childish. Her hair was beginning to come loose from its prim little bun. He lapped up all the details of her comforted misery, revelled in them.

"This is - your time." She said finally. "I couldn't possibly - "

"Nonsense." He interjected, masking his impatience beneath protest. "It's _our_ time, Doc. It's part of what we've built together. I trust you and you trust me. We share, in this room, Doc. We support each other. We work together and we can accomplish anything."

And he felt the fire of elation flood him. It was true. It was so very, very true. He could accomplish anything he wanted with pretty Doctor Quinzel's fragile little mind, especially with her cooperation.

She knew she should protest, he could see it on her face. _But she didn't want to. _It was a thing of beauty and a sight to behold. He wanted to immortalise it somehow. Have it framed and nailed to the wall. How had she ever gotten this job?

He made things a little easier for her still.

"Doc, I understand you feel like there might be a conflict of interest." He said tenderly. "So how's this for an idea? The first half of the session, it's me talking to you - telling you what the score is. What's going on in this big brilliant head of mine. Second half, it's you - except it's not really you, Doctor Harleen Quinzel. It's that lost yet laughing little girl inside you. It's Harley Quinn."

When she sat up quite straight and blinked her eyes rapidly at him, he knew he had her.


	20. Session 65: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**NINETEEN**

**Week Thirty-Three: **_**Session 65 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

"_He's a killer, Harleen. A ruthless, maniacal killer."_

That was the refrain she repeated over and over to herself as she waited for their session to begin.

She'd expected a lot of things from The Joker. She'd expected to find him frightening, thrilling, fascinating and intriguing. She'd expected to find him violent, cruel and taunting. She'd expected him to make silly jokes one second, launch into a graphic description of murder the next.

She had not expected to find a man.

Not just a man. A funny, charming, charismatic man who was desperately intelligent. Insane? She wasn't sure anymore. Misunderstood, seemed more likely. Of course his behaviour was aberrantly anti-social. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to reconcile that behaviour with the entertaining and interesting gentleman who sat on her couch and told her incredible stories.

She had mused on this, in her office compiling her notes. Perhaps part of the problem was that, distant as they were, everyone else found it impossible to separate his behaviour from the man. She herself had entered sessions with him with an enormous cache of preconceptions that could very well have biased her treatment of him. As it had no doubt biased that of many doctors before her.

And so, The Joker himself continued to be ignored. To be disregarded and dismissed.

She could definitely empathise with that. It had, after all, been the story of her life.

And, just like herself, Joker had acted out. His behaviour was a cry for attention. Of course, his behaviour was far more extreme than most people's, but perhaps it was the only way he knew how. Perhaps he had been so tainted by the years of studying and categorising, of judgement and condemnation that he could no longer relate to normal behaviour, rather than it being a simple cut and dried case of him being a psychopath.

The world had failed The Joker and then blamed him for retaliating. Where was the justice in that?

No doubt this realisation would help her treat him. She had almost three hundred pages of typed notes and observations now, working on her records long into the night after all the other Doctors had gone home. It no longer frightened her to walk through the dark and empty corridors of the Asylum to the rear staff parking. She'd spent too much time within those walls. Sometimes she even felt reluctant to stand up from her desk and switch the computer off, to go back to her small, empty apartment. Here, at least, she had a sort of company.

The plans for her book had been discarded. There was no way she could publish The Joker's secrets now. More than anyone else, she had reached him and he trusted her. She could no more break that trust than she could give up breathing.

The Joker was animated that day, sitting up straight on the couch, beaming at her brightly.

"It's nice to see you looking so happy." She said to him and he wiggled his toes with glee.

"How can I not be?" He exclaimed. "It's a beautiful day and I've got a session with my favourite Doctor! Wouldn't you be happy, Doc?"

She couldn't help but return his smile, infected with his good humour. "Well, that's very nice of you. But is that really it?"

He clicked his tongue, pointed his index finger at her. "You're too sharp for me, Doc. That's only part of it. The truth is, that it's a special anniversary of mine, and reflecting on it always makes me feel like smiling."

She nodded encouragingly. "Would you like to share the details?"

He waggled a finger at her. "Sorry Doc. That's strictly on the Q.T. But I've arranged a little present for my best friend on account of it and I just know he's gonna die when he gets it!"

"A present for Batman?" Oh dear. She hoped he hadn't been misbehaving himself. She would feel so betrayed… "How did you manage that."

He tapped the side of his nose. "I have my ways, Doc Quinn. Don't worry, it's nothing you need to be concerned about. Just a little private joke between the two of us."

She relaxed somewhat. He had no reason to lie to her, after all.

"Since you mentioned him," she continued chirpily, "I wanted to ask you about Batman in relation to your Father."

He blinked at her, seemed taken aback, then recovered himself. "Shoot."

"Whilst you haven't said anything directly, I've gotten the impression from you that your father was somewhat neglectful and perhaps abusive." He was silent, leaning back on his hands on the couch, his legs loosely splayed. "It's occurred to me that perhaps you see Batman as a sort of father figure and this is why you've fixated on him so much. Like an ignored child who does "naughty" things for their parents' attention, in this way you act out against Batman. What do you think of that?"

His lip twitched and an expression of thoughtful consideration flooded his face. "I never - I never thought of it like that." He confessed. "Are you - correct me if I'm wrong - but are you asking me if all the things I do for dear old Ratman's attention is in reality me crying out for my cold old bully of a Dad?"

She felt suddenly self-conscious, nodded coyly. Would he think it was stupid? He suddenly sat forward, resting his arms on his thighs, an expression of wonderment on his face.

"You know - I think - I think you might have it, Doc!" He exclaimed quietly. "Of course - of course, it all makes sense! Why didn't I see it before?" He seemed truly amazed, gazing at the floor as though puzzling it over. She felt a rush of elation run through her, helpless delight.

"It would've been difficult for you to detach from a situation so close," she explained gently. "But now that we've made the connection we can work on it. Perhaps we can start by talking about your father?" She carefully probed.

Joker whipped his head up and stared at her, grinning.

"You want to know about my dear old Daddy, do you, Doc? Want to hear about the drunken brawls and the beatings, the jokes at my fragile boyhood's expense? You want to delve in deep, don't you Doc Quinzel - peel away my layers like an onion till you get to the juice inside."

His voice was low, almost sneering. A touch of the old fear licked through her again. Perhaps this was moving too fast. Perhaps he was not ready to open those old wounds.

"Only if you feel ready to." She said faintly.

He sat up straight, still smiling.

"Doc, let me ask you this: Is a wretched past an excuse for the things I've done?" He quirked an eyebrow at her and pursed his mouth shut, looking at her enquiringly. She considered his words, formed a response:

"It's not about an excuse. It's identifying a reason, a possible cause for your behaviour."

He leered. "Same thing, isn't it? Or can be. In the right hands." And there was something so very insinuating about that.

But no, it wasn't like that. Childhood abuse was a horrible trauma, difficult to come back from. Coupled with his scarring at the hands of an imposing authority figure like the Batman and it was only natural some twisted connection would be made in his fragile mind and that he would begin acting out, the misplaced need for his father's attention taking shape in his elaborate schemes. This was the reason behind his anarchism and Batman was like the ultimate parent! All this time, all this pain so deeply concealed and hidden away and no one had ever even bothered to try and really help him.

It was quite tormenting to think about.

"Do you remember our little agreement, Harley?"

The way he said her name, it made her tremble. It was as though he caressed it with his tongue before releasing it. Dumbly, she nodded.

"Then tell me about _your_ father, Harley."

She stiffened, flickered her eyes onto him, then away. "There's nothing to tell." She said coldly and he raised one eyebrow very high.

"Izzat so?" And then he was sliding down the couch, patting the space next to him. "Come over here and tell me that."

_She couldn't cross the yellow line. The yellow line that surrounded the couch, marking out the safe zone, where his chains would not reach. She'd promised Joan. He was still a killer. _

But he hadn't killed anyone in _months_. He'd been so well-behaved and everyone had noticed.

Everyone knew it was because of her.

She stood before she was even aware of it, heard her heels click as she walked over the floor to the couch, until she was standing _right next to him_, and then her knees trembled and she dropped heavily onto the couch.

Oh God. She'd never been so close to him before. Never thought she would be. She was sitting _beside_ him, beside The Joker. This was insane. It was dangerous. But her knees were jelly now and there was no way she was going to be able to stand up.

He'd turned his head to smile down at her, so much taller than she was, seeming insanely more real, larger than life, than any human could really be.

This close she could see the faint laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, the way his hair curled over one ear, how heavy his brows were. She could smell him - he smelled of soap and a generic shampoo - and hear how his pyjamas rustled when he shifted. His sheer physical presence was absolutely overwhelming. She felt quite light-headed.

"Remember," he purred, staring into her eyes with his own purple ones. "You're not Doctor Quinzel right now." He took in a breath and released it with his next words: "Tell me about your father, Harley."

Something hot and delightful in her stomach when he said her name. She gulped. Briefly shut her eyes and began.

"Honestly, there's not much to tell." Her voice sounded smaller, higher. "He left my mother before I was born. I never knew him. I tracked him down through some relatives when I graduated. I thought he might want to know. Asked him if he'd like to meet. And. Well. He didn't. He wasn't interested. That's it. That's all there is to tell." She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, fought back the tears. She didn't dare look at The Joker. If she did that, she might lose it all together.

He was silent, beside her, but she was all too aware of him, of his lanky height, the powerful aura he had and how it seemed to tug at her. There was at least a foot of space between them and she had to resist the urge to slide over closer.

"He's a fool." Joker said finally, his voice breaking the quiet, and that did it for her. The tears spilled over her cheeks and she let her shoulders slump forward.

"Whu-whu-why didn't he wa-wa-want meeeee!" She wailed and knew she sounded like a child and couldn't really care.

"Because he's a fool." Joker repeated himself calmly. "Because having a beautiful, intelligent, talented daughter pressed too close to home his own inadequacy. What, is he some marvellously successful lawyer? A doctor? A stock broker?"

Harley sniffled, wiped her eyes. "He's a grease monkey."

Joker laughed out loud, a long, grating peal that should've made her shudder but instead made her smile and she lifted her head to look at him as he threw his head back and laughed.

"Laugh at him, Harley!" he encouraged her. "Compare him to you and laugh! You're not even thirty and you're on your way to being one of the most renowned psychologists in the world! And what's he doing? Still making two hundred bucks a week cleaning spark plugs! Ha ha ha! That's brilliant! Imagine if he'd stuck around, he would've dragged you down into the pit with him! Laugh, sweetheart!"

And so she did. She hiccoughed at first, and her tears still fell, but after a moment it got easier and soon they were laughing together on the couch and her heart lifted and her sides ached.

When they finally stopped, Joker regarded her kindly, leaning back a little to cast his gaze up and down. "You should thank him, Harley." He said. "I know it must've been hard for you, growing up without a Daddy to love you and take care of you and protect you." Her heart clenched when he said that, the strange loneliness of all those years revisited in a flash. But she looked at him, at his intelligent, perceptive face and felt comforted. How sensitive he was… how wise… "But that just taught you how to do it all by yourself. And you've done such a good job. You should be very, very proud of yourself." And suddenly one of his arms darted out and she flinched a little, but he just pushed back a stray lock of hair off her forehead, the scrape of his fingers soft. "I am."

And she beamed at him.


	21. Session 71: The Joker

**TWENTY**

**Week Thirty-Six: **_**Session 71 - The Joker**_

Things were really beginning to pick up now!

Harley had felt the sting of her father's rejection all her life, as it quickly emerged. And no doubt it played more than a little part in her desperate drive to succeed - in her yearning to be taken seriously, and respected.

But of course, what made it absolutely hilarious, was that she projected that onto _him_ and his relationship with the Dork Knight! When he got back to his cell he'd rolled around for what felt like _hours_ in hysterics over it all. It was so perfectly beautiful! Oh dear, dear, daffy Doctor Quinzel!

She was a classic.

"Why don't they like me?" She snivelled. "I've never done anything to them. I've only ever tried to be nice. To fit in. What have they got against me?"

He gazed at her through calculatedly sympathetic eyes, uncurling the fingers of one hand eloquently: "Oh, but you have done a great deal to them. From their perspective. You're younger than any of them and climbing so high, so fast - of course they resent you, pet."

"I hate them!" she whimpered, "I hate all of them! They're all so stuck up and full of themselves - thinking they're better than me because they studied overseas!"

"It's jealousy, Doll Face." He reminded her and she looked at him _so _hopefully.

"You really think so?" Her little face with its quivering lip and wet blue eyes. Aw.

"I _know_ so. You've outstripped them faster than they could blink. They can't stand it!"

A momentary look of satisfaction, smug, then her face would fall again. "But I just want them to respect me! It isn't fair! I've worked so hard! I deserve it!"

"Yes, you do," He coddled, sliding just that little bit closer to her. "You really do."

"It's all I've ever wanted." She turned a desperate gaze to him. "Just to be - to be appreciated!"

He nodded understandingly. "To be loved."

"Yes!" She gasped, her eyes shining. "You're so insightful! My - my -" And a fresh wave of tears while he rolled his eyes and tightened his fists in his lap. He enjoyed tears, he really did, but really only when he was the cause of them. "- After my mother died and I went to live with my Aunt - she just didn't care! She didn't have any time for me! She didn't care about anything I did. She wasn't interested. She got me into gymnastics so I'd be out of the house more often. I trained _so hard _so she would see what I could do. But she never came to a single meet! Not one!"

Yawn. He hoped she would get onto something interesting soon. Maybe he could make a few suggestions…

"And I thought - " And Harley sat up straight and held up a fist, a pretty little scowl on her silly face. "- I'll show you! I'll show all of you what I can do! I'll be famous and respected and then you'll all love me! You will! Everyone will love me!"

And she gasped and then looked at him, horror-struck.

He hoped she hadn't caught him with a bored expression. He raised an enquiring eyebrow. "What is it, Dearest?" He said sweetly.

Her lip quivered and she wrung her hands. "I have -" She hesitated, then continued, resolute, holding her chin up: "I have a confession to make to you."

Ooooh. This might be good. He feigned surprise.

"Really? To me? What could it be?"

Her chin wobbled and she sniffled again while she looked at him. "I'm so ashamed!" She cried. "You're going to hate me when I tell you. I'm so afraid I'm going to lose your trust, and I couldn't stand it, after all this time!"

Oh, oh, oh, yes! Here it came. He clenched his hands to stop them trembling with excitement, assumed an expression of concern.

"What are you saying, Harley? What have you done?"

"Oh God!" She buried her face in her hands again and he suppressed the urge to scream at her _JUST SAY IT_. "It's so shameful. You're going to feel so violated. And I want you to know," She sat up again and turned to him, her wet expression hopelessly earnest. "That it's all changed. Please. You must believe me when I tell you that it's no longer the case. I promise you, I know it will be hard for you to believe me, but I've never been so sincere in all my life."

"Harley, you're making me feel very nervous!" He lied, placing a hand on his stomach. "I wish you would just say…"

She took in a deep, steadying breath and clasped her hands together in her lap. "The real reason I wanted you as my patient was not to help you. It was to learn your secrets. And - and -" she sniffled, her cheeks burned red. "- _write a book about them!_ Oh, please forgive me, please!" She turned to him, desperate and pleading, holding her clasped hands up in an entreaty.

Inside he was cawing, crowing and carolling. Now it was all beginning to come out. Very soon there'd be nothing left he didn't know about her. But outwardly, he blinked at her several times as though he was too shocked to say anything, and her expression continued to fall into abject dismay.

"Harley," He said finally, his voice softly approving. "How marvellously resourceful of you."

There were no words to describe the shock that washed over her face then. "What?"

"Yes," He continued, "That's well - I mean, I've been impressed by you before but - well. Now, I'm in awe. Nothing stops you, does it?" And he gave her an admiring sideways grin.

"Really? You - you're not mad?" She whispered, as though she scarcely dared hope.

He shrugged, dropped his gaze to the front. "Well. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hurt -" And she sobbed, "- but I also can't help but respect you. I mean, you didn't know me then, did you? It's not as though you maliciously set out to betray me. And, well. It's not like you aimed for the dregs - focused on some lesser rogue like Riddler or Hatter. No, you went straight for the big leagues, where another would've quailed." He glanced at her again, his expression serious. "I respect that."

"I'm not writing it anymore." She promised him. "I swear that to you. Please believe me."

"Oh, but I do!" He replied, widening his eyes. "You wouldn't tell me otherwise! In fact, that you did tell me proves how trustworthy you are!"

And he took a chance, leaned over and grasped one of her tiny hands in his and squeezed it gently. "Thank you, Harley."

The expression of rapturous joy on her face was one to remember and he thrilled at how magnificently he was playing this game. "Oh, no, thank _you_, thank you for having trust and faith in me! It's so generous of you and I don't deserve it! Oh thank you!"

He let go her hand and sat back. "Of course," he said a little ruefully, "I - I might be a little reluctant to share now." Her face fell. "Don't get me wrong - I believe you. But I guess - well. I am hurt." And he let his head drop sadly.

He felt her hesitate and then she was closing the space between them, her warm, soft pink hand wrapping around his own bony white one. "As long as you need." She assured him. "I completely understand."

She was right beside him now, her knee pressing against the side of his thigh, and he swivelled his head to look down at her, letting a smile creep slowly up his face.

"I knew you would." He said softly.

--

_I haven't been leaving my usual little end-notes because I haven't wanted to take away from the story itself, considering where things are going._

_But I continue to be incredibly grateful to all who are reading this story, especially those leaving reviews. It really means a lot and inspires me to keep on going. Thank you!_

_Now we have physical contact… holy cow. Where to next?_


	22. Session 74: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**TWENTY-ONE**

**Week Thirty-Seven: **_**Session 74 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

It had started when he touched her hand.

It had been like a jolt, an electric shock that coursed through her, that touch. _His_ hand, long and thin and incredibly strong - she could feel the strength in it though he had been so gentle - closing around her own. The coolness of it, the smoothness of the skin.

It had set off a sensation in her. A sensation she hadn't had since she was fifteen and knew she was about to get her first kiss. An incredible, heady, delirious sensation that started in the pit of her stomach and pooled out like hot honey.

How could she not have realised it earlier?

It was horribly unprofessional, she knew, but it wasn't as if she could control it. It wasn't as if she even knew, until that touch.

Now, all she could think about was him. Being so close to him was - like a drug. It intoxicated her. She was so _aware_ of him, of his solidness and strength, his long, lanky masculinity. He wasn't a man like all those posturing jocks had been - he was so much more than they were. They had to _force _their masculinity, prove it over and over - he simply possessed his. It was as natural to him as breathing - or smiling.

And what a smile.

How on earth was she going to get through sessions with him from now on?

Did he know? Could he tell?

Her salary was stretched as far as it could go, with car payments, rent, uni debts, bills and other living expenses. Yet she couldn't resist splashing out on a smart new suit that fit properly and a pair of beautiful low red court heels. Of course, as soon as she did it she regretted it, because both gas and electricity were due and she didn't get paid for another fortnight. It was with a curious mingled guilt and pride that she walked down the corridor to their therapy room, as well as a vague sense of anxiety, hoping her facilities would not get switched off.

But it was worth it. Because he noticed. One eyebrow went up and he let out a low whistle.

"New threads, Doc? Very nice."

She beamed. The suit was smart black with a red pinstripe, her blouse a crisp white and she had a bright red scarf around her neck to match her new heels. Finally, she felt the way a Doctor like her _should_ feel, and that he noticed was just the icing on the cake. But, of course - he wasn't like other men. Nothing went by him.

Joan had noticed her new ensemble as well and had complimented her. Harleen had given her a bright smile that hadn't quite reached her eyes. No longer did she and Joan meet in the staff room for morning and afternoon coffee and a gossip. She knew that Joan had noticed her distance, but Harleen had been careful to make it understood she was simply swamped with work.

After all, how could Joan possibly understand the miraculous changes she was going through?

It was excruciating, having to sit in that chair opposite where he sat and behave like she was nothing more than his Doctor, when she yearned to be so much more. She was hyper-aware of every gesture he made - every blink of his eyes, motion of his fingertips, how he tossed his head to throw back an errant lock of hair, how his feet tapped and shuffled on the floor, how the fabric of his pyjamas slid and caught over his shoulders, across his stomach and - oh, God - his groin.

She hoped he couldn't tell.

"So why the new daks, Doc? What's the occasion?"

"I just needed some." She said nonchalantly. "Those old second-hand ones were beginning to show their age. I probably shouldn't have but -"

He expressed incredulity. "Why shouldn't you have?"

"Oh," she flapped a hand about. "I just have bills due. My salary isn't great."

"That'll change soon enough." He reassured her. "Need a loan?"

"Oh no, I couldn't!" She said hastily. "Oh no, please don't think I'm asking -"

"I know you're not, Doc." He said breezily. "I'm offering. Are you sure? I hate to think of you losing sleep at night." And his smile was _so damnably charming._ It made her want to melt.

"I just never realised being a grown up involved so much!" She confessed and he immediately patted the couch next to him and she went without hesitation.

"I feel like we're neglecting your issues." She said guiltily - he had been neglected by everyone else so long, she couldn't bear to think she was doing the same thing! The poor creature deserved at least one person to really listen to him. But he waved a dismissive hand about.

"How can my Doctor treat me if she's shouldering burdens of her own? C'mon, spill, Harley."

They were sitting so much closer now. It made her slightly breathless. She breathed in his scent, relished it. To touch him again - she'd been waiting for an excuse.

But she couldn't let on about that. It would be unprofessional. Inexcusable. An abuse of power. One more weight to add to her load of anxieties.

"There's just so much to think about," She sighed. "I'm barely making a dent in my uni debts. I'm just scraping by with my car payments. Gas costs so much! And food - do you know what I'm living on? Apples and instant noodles!"

"Oh, Harley." He chided her. "That doesn't sound very nutritious."

Already the tears were hovering. Already she could hear her voice pitching higher in the curious way it did when she unburdened herself to him. "Who cares?"

He tsked. "_I_ care, Harley. I need you healthy. There's no excuse for not looking after yourself." She felt her eyes glaze over. Her Aunt had _never_ said anything like that to her. How nice… how nice that someone was. Someone cared. He cared.

"There's just so much to worry about." She mumbled again. He seemed closer. Yes. He was right by her. Their thighs were brushing. Had she moved, or had he?

"No need to worry about anything anymore." He soothed her. "Not until four o'clock, Harley-girl. Just relax and let Uncle Joker take care of everything." He'd bent his head, the warmth of his voice tickled against her ear and then, God, then there was something warm and soothing around her shoulders.

His arm. He'd put his arm around her. She felt herself swoon beneath it, its comforting heaviness, and leaned into him. Oh, he was so solid. She shouldn't be doing this. It was unprofessional. But it just felt so nice. She hadn't been close to anyone in what felt like forever. And to be so close to _him_- her breast pressed against his side, his body heat filtering through the thin fabric of his pajamas, warming her to her core - how could she pull away now? No, just let her have this one - this one indulgence.

Just this once. She wouldn't do it again.

She heard herself make a soft noise, and then he said 'shhhh' and even more wonderfully he lifted his hand and cupped her face, drawing her head against his shoulder. She shut her eyes and let herself do nothing more than simply _feel_ him.

Her skin tingled. The stroke of his fingertips tickled her ear, smoothed her cheek. His shoulder was rock beneath her, holding her up. God, this man had killed people, and here she was, leaning against him, letting him hold her close. So close. He needed her help. There was blood on his hands. But it wasn't his fault. What would the bare flesh of his chest feel like against her? No! She needed his help. NO. _He_ needed _her_ help. He was a killer. He did it to find love. His daddy hadn't loved him, just like hers hadn't loved her. They both needed love. But she was the doctor. She was here to help him. But it just felt so good to have someone listed to her.

The torrent of thoughts battering Harley's mind were growing quickly unbearable, contradicting and confusing each other and she reached forward blindly, balling her hand in the fabric of his pajama top, a strange, high-pitched sound rising in her ears. She realised she was making it, giving voice to her agony.

"Shhhh, baby, shhhh." The Joker's voice carressed her ears as his fingertips twined in her hair, his other hand squeezing her shoulder. How it made her feel to be soothed like that. There was nothing, he was right, nothing beyond these walls until four o'clock. She was ensconced within the warmth of their bond, their trust, until then.

Had this man really killed people in cold blood? He was so tender and understanding. He would make such a great father.

She felt a tingling sensation between her thighs and squirmed a little. In response, he began to gently rock her back and forth and she felt her nipples peak beneath her blouse.

He deserved better than her. How could _she_ help him? Here he was, putting all his trust in her, and he had no idea of the whole awful truth.

"A smart little girl like you," His voice drifted down through her bliss. "You'll have no problem taking care of things."

Her eyes flew open. "I have another confession." She heard herself declare and he dropped the hand that rested on her cheek to pick up one of hers.

"I'm listening, Harley." His voice was warm and solicitous.

She didn't even pause to think about what she was going to say, just let the words come tumbling out. "I meant to study. I really did. A friend helped me make a study plan and everything. Every semester. And sometimes I'd try. I'd sit down at my desk with my books and I'd open them and I'd try. I really did. But it was so hard. So confusing. Sometimes I spent hours and hours and I'd still only get a B minus. That's all I saw. Cs and Bs, no matter how hard I tried." The frustration of her university years flew back to her, bringing tears to prickle her eyes. Studying until dawn, re-reading the same chapters over and over again, struggling to form words in her essays, endless tutoring sessions, fighting to keep the smile on her face with every concerned enquiry from her professors. Crying into her pillow long after her eyes had started to sting and she could no longer read the words on the page. She sniffled and gripped his hand. It didn't yield, but stayed firm around hers, anchoring her.

"And then my friends wanted me to go out. To party. I didn't want to lose my friends. I've lost them now anyway. I had to. Otherwise, you see, I would've been so alone and I just couldn't stand it. There was always so much to do. So many distractions. But I really did mean to. I tried. I swear I did."

He was very still, his hand just squeezing hers lightly, his arm supportive around her.

"So what happened, Harley?" And his voice was soft as a caress.

"I failed." She admitted, remembering that awful revelation, and how all her hopes and dreams had suddenly seemed to rush away from her, scatter beyond reach. "My final thesis - a whole year's worth of work and I got an F. I flunked. Utterly. So I - I made a deal with the department head. I -"

Oh please, let him say she didn't need to say anything more, please let him stop her! But he was silent, waiting.

"I slept with him." But that wasn't accurate, was it? She gulped, and continued: "I had sex with him. For my grades."

Her degree was a lie. The whole thing. She didn't belong here, amongst all these smart, qualified people. She didn't belong _here_, with him, with this poor, tender soul who so desperately needed someone to support him and save him.

She was a fraud, masquerading. And this poor, beautiful man - she'd deceived him. Earned his trust. Only to shatter it. God. She screwed her eyes up tight and clung to him, her jaw clenched. It was unbearable.

_No._ No it wasn't a lie, not really. She belonged here. She _did_. She was sure she could've got the grades, if she'd tried even harder. And wasn't the work she was doing with him proof? She squeezed her eyes shut tight against his chest. It was. It was. She was doing good work with him. Important work. She'd made breakthroughs no one else had. She _was_ helping him.

But would he hate her now? Had she finally lost him?

He extricated his hand from hers and lifted it to her face, began to gently stroke her hair. She could scarcely believe the gentle tenderness of his touch still, in light of all that she'd revealed.

"You did what you had to do, Harley." She blinked up at him. Could he really be forgiving her - again? He smiled down into her face, his expressive mouth full of sweet humour, his eyes crinkling adorably at the corners.

"It was naughty of you not to study," His voice was just a little scolding and she blushed a little under it, chastised but not shamed. "But you followed your dreams anyway, and that's something to be proud of." He nodded encouragingly at her. She felt elation begin to overcome the despair, humbled by the enormous capacity to forgive this remarkable man possessed. "You didn't let it stop you. That's something I respect. You have such marvellous determination. I'm sure, if you had studied, you would've done just as well. Well, I'm proof, aren't I! Just look at the wonderful work you've done with me!"

How her heart leapt, to hear those words; validation, a corroboration of her own thoughts, from his very mouth! She lifted her arm and wrapped it around his middle, squeezing him tight to her.

"I knew you'd understand." She breathed deliriously. "You always understand."

And he chuckled and petted her hair.

--

_Thank you to all you marvellous people for continuing to review, or dropping your first review. I love hearing your thoughts! A reader mentioned the last two chapters didn't seem as strong after Chapter 18. I'm curious to hear your thoughts on this. I suppose it might've been anti-climactic after the big reveal. _

_I'm also pleased to have at least one convert under my belt - someone who hated the ship prior to this fic! Welcome to my world, Cale, and I'm honoured to have changed your mind!_

_Finally - if you don't have this fic in your update alerts, time to add it. In the next few chapters, it will be going up to an M rating, meaning it won't appear in the Comics category unless you specifically request 'M' rated, or 'All' rated fics._


	23. Session 79: The Joker

**TWENTY-TWO**

**Week Forty: **_**Session 79 - The Joker**_

All in all, Dr. Quinzel was shaping up to be the most gratifying Doctor-patient relationship he'd ever had.

"Like you, Harley, I've been plagued by a world that refuses to understand me."

She nodded earnestly, her pretty face grave and turned up to his. Now, she only stayed in her own chair for as long as it took the guards to shut the door behind them. Then she was beside him, all too obviously trembling with excitement and thrill.

"I know," She said. "It's what I've come to be aware of. I have to admit I judged you too, at first. But now I'm beginning to understand. Everything you've been through, how no one's ever listened to you. How hard and lonely it must've been, all these years."

"You're so sweet to me," He crooned, and he meant it. She really, really was.

Sweet, sweet Doctor Quinzel. She hungered for understanding, to find someone who really appreciated her.

It wasn't hard to do. He definitely appreciated her. She was making the current stint in Arkham _so_ much more fun. And the sex for grades things was a delicious turn up, though he'd started to suspect something along those lines, especially after the little word game revelation. She wasn't sure whether to be proud of it or ashamed of it and the two emotions mingled and confused her. Sometimes he'd praise her resourcefulness. Other times he would shake his head sadly and say he knew she could've done it if only she'd applied herself. She would always look dejected then, her blonde head bowing over and he'd smile to himself. She wanted his approval, but relished his chastisement. Growing up, no one had taken enough notice to chastise her grades.

"The only way a sensitive soul like you can survive in this world," she was saying to him. "Is if the world will change. The whole system is a failure. I feel so… so…" She stared down helplessly at her lap, at her curled up hands. "_Betrayed_!"She finally blurted. "I mean, we're supposed to be helping you, and you know what it says in your file?" Her cute little face suddenly contorted with frustration. "'Untreatable!' 'Incorrigible!' 'Incurable!' I mean, what kind of defeatist, irresponsible, unethical attitude is that! They're not even trying. All they do is lock you up in here and subject you to more torment and abuse – a band-aid solution, doomed to failure!"

Her righteous indignation was deliciously hilarious to behold. He made a mental note to ask her to bring his file to the next session. He wanted to see if it lived up to his expectations.

He turned to her and reached over the short distance between them and scooped up both of her hands in his and looked down wonderingly into her adoring face.

"I can't believe I've finally met someone who understands!" He enthused and she beamed.

"I'll rehabilitate you," she said earnestly. "I promise you. Together we can work towards integrating your unique vision and genius into a fully-functioning, well-adjusted lifestyle." Her teeth sparkled beneath the low glare of the light above them, her cheeks flushed as pink as the wall.

He sat back a little, allowed his face to adopt an expression of confusion and hurt.

"You want to change me?" He enquired in a bruised voice.

She leant forward quickly to reassure him, squeezing his hands tighter. She was stronger than the average woman – gymnastics of course – but still her hands felt frail and brittle in his.

"No, no." She said soothingly, eyebrows creasing upwards. "Not at all. I just believe we can channel your vast creative energy into less destructive pursuits. I mean, that is, we can find a way for you to express yourself without resorting to killing people.

_Resorting?_

Blind fury overwhelmed him and the sight of her was washed over in blood red. The stupid little airhead with her delusions of grandeur – all this talk about how she understood him and then so blatantly revealing that she just. _Didn't. Get. It. _He barely felt his jaw grinding, or saw the way she squirmed with sudden discomfort beneath his penetrating stare. He was too concerned with imagining scooping out her throat with his bare hands, silencing that helium-filled voice once and for all.

"You're hurting me." She squeaked, eyes round and alarmed on him, and he realised he was gripping her hands violently tight and abruptly shook his anger off, diffusing the moment with a playful little chuckle.

"I'm sorry, Harley-dear." He said soothingly as she gazed up at him fearfully. "It's just that I'm so unused to anyone taking a real interest in me – really wanting to help." He turned his head away from hers a little, peeking up at her coyly from beneath lowered lashes. "It's having such a profound effect on me. You know how sensitive I am. I barely know how to deal with it."

Her shoulders sagged with relief and she smiled again.

"I know how radical this all must seem." She said tenderly and he suppressed a snort. "Especially when you've developed ways to specifically help you cope with the world, its barrage of information and stimuli, its indifference and cruelty. And I've been reading up on nihilism lately." He felt a little twinge within his breast then, something unrecognisable but savage. How very, very sweet she was, and how hard she tried. How greatly he anticipated her destruction. She continued, "and I'm finding it very interesting. I can see a great deal of merit in the theories and beliefs. It's like you said to me once before, just how much our concept of morality has changed in the last hundred years. That got me thinking. And I know you're trying to show the world that," she turned compassionate and anxious eyes upon him, imploring with him to understand her, now. "I know that's the grand vision behind what you do. But killing people – it's just - " She paused to consider her words carefully, her eyes darting about the room, her hands still wrapped around his. On a whim, he stroked his thumb down the path of one and she shivered violently and turned a slightly glazed look back at him. " – it's just it _is_ wrong. And it makes it so that people can't look past it."

He suspected suddenly she was talking herself into rings in her head, uncertain even of what she herself really believed. He sat up a little straighter and watched her carefully through lidded eyes.

"If they can't look past it, then here you are. It's not that you need to change, it's just that some of your behaviour needs to be modified. I understand what you are trying to accomplish, how you are trying to enlighten the world, and I strongly support you to pursue that. And the only way that can be done is if you get the attention and compassion and appreciation you deserve for your brilliance. If you get the love you need. So that's what we're going to do. Mend the system and give you back your rights." She finished triumphantly and blinked dazedly. There was a daffy little smile on her face as she went over her words internally, glancing off to the side before giving a little satisfied nod. "Yeah." She added softly.

He loved her logic. It was completely twisted and disjointed, made no sense whatsoever and was entirely skewed. Maybe the kid had some promise after all. He chuckled lowly, a sound that had her gaze fluttering back up to his, that coloured her cheek and he bent his head downwards towards her, let his forehead press against hers and enjoyed the look of giddy bliss that misted her features.

"You're the only one who understands, Harley." He whispered. "Only you."

She said nothing, simply gazed back up at him in mute wonder.

She didn't really understand. She didn't really get it. But she was _trying_ to and it somehow just made it more wonderful. It was like how he told her she should be glad her father dumped her. She _tried_ to be, but she couldn't really make it. She still remembered his absence keenly and combined with the sudden girlish lilt to her voice and childish pouts, it didn't take him long to see what she needed.

"You and me, we've led such similar lives."

He resisted the roll of his eyes as she moved the conversation back towards herself. She was so _needy_ and wanted so much attention.

"You've never had anyone to listen to you. That's been the key element missing from your treatment. There's been no heart or soul in it. They've just been studying you like a _lab rat_." She spat the last two words out fiercely. "I've had the same problem myself. No one has ever wanted to listen to me."

His mind wandered away, not in one direction of course, but following a multitude of split paths. He found himself pondering what his darling Batman was up to right then. He bet Batman had been keeping tabs on his current shrink. He hoped Harley wasn't giving too much away beyond their little room. Not that he wouldn't want Batsy to know eventually, but it'd spoil the game if he roused it now. He also thought about the Moon's dusty crevices, an old silent comedy film he'd caught the tail end of once a night on the lam in a ten buck a night motel, the bloody, pulped face of a small child he'd played with once, a brilliant new chemical concoction he'd devised over a few restless nights in stir that he couldn't wait to try out, that Mr. Kittlemeier would have a whole set of beautiful new suits ready for him next time he was back to work, a bioengineering problem he'd been carefully working out for a short while, that Ethan and Ross were outside playing cards and Doctor Bartholomew had sat in for a quick hand while passing by, and whether or not the weather at the Easter Islands was pleasant this time of year. He wouldn't mind a little sun.

Through it all he kept an eye on Harley, her high words and delicate movements filtering through as if from far away. He knew he was storing the information and could refer back to it later. She was pouting, her eyes were wet and he knew she was unburdening her woes again – and a long list of them she accumulated indeed. He blinked and refocused on her.

She was talking about a Professor who'd been especially hard on her. "He never listened," she complained. "He never cared. He never stopped to even consider how hard things were for me. He yelled at me in front of the whole class for not reading some stupid chapter even when I told him I had to work the night before. He said I should've just read it earlier!" Her face trembled with the memory of her humiliation and quickly, he scooped a hand under her thigh and lifted her onto his lap. She barely seemed to notice, just dropped her head down to his shoulder and sniffled.

"That bad old pwofessor was always such a big meanie to me!" She pouted in a baby voice and quite unexpectedly, he got a hard on.

He was momentarily startled by it, at this grotesque physical reaction to his twitty little Doc, but then he inwardly leered. Oh boy, was he undoing her. At this rate she was going to be a vegetable by the time he was done.

She noticed it and sat up straight, shifting a little uncomfortably. But she didn't get off his lap.

Of course, she was attracted to him. She had been, almost from the start, though she probably hadn't been aware of it. But she was now. And where was that going to lead them, he wondered.

Naturally, when she finished crying, he got her to laugh again and saw what a relief it was. He imagined the wonderful lurch - the gorgeous release she must feel through her long-suppressed tears counteracted so magnificently by laughter, giggles and smiles, holding her aching sides. It would be like getting drunk, intoxicated on some ambrosiaceous liquor. Or finding Nirvana.

It was also desperately cute, noticing the new shoes and the softer hair-do, the brighter lipstick and how she sat there and gazed dreamily at him while he talked to her.

And how he talked!

"I see a world full of smiles, Harley!" He breathed, standing up in the room and throwing his arms up wide. "All the way around and up and down! It's all I want to see, sweet Harley! Beautiful, smiling faces. What else is this miserable world is worth more? It's the only thing worth anything." He turned to her, uncurling his fingers towards her in a gesture half beckoning, half persuading. "Think of the joy you feel when you're right in the middle of a good belly laugh. The sheer intoxicating euphoria, how you wish it would never end. Well, imagine feeling that joy always! That's how I feel, Harley - and that's how I want the world to feel! Frozen in merriment, always. Always and forever."

"That's so beautiful." She said, her eyes brimming and he laughed softly.

"I'm a visionary, what can I say!" He grinned smugly, posing with his hips jutting forward, throwing his head up, noticing the way she wiggled a little, the thrill in her eyes. "I have such dreams, Harley. The world would be powerless to stop me if it weren't for the Batman."

"He won't stop you forever, Mistah J. I'm sure he won't."

He grinned to himself. But that was the whole point - Batman always would stop him. Poor little Harley just couldn't understand it. He and the Batman were Gods amongst men, more real and pure than anything her feeble little mind could dream up. He glanced at her. Still, she'd done a damn sight better than most. And she wasn't bad to look at, either. And she had started calling him 'Mr. J' though where that had come from he couldn't begin to fathom. But it was cute. Had a ring to it.

"The Batman seeks to stop me because it is what he must do," He reminded her. "He is the despair that swallows up my delirium. It makes me so sad, Harley. I try, I really do. I try to make him smile. Try to make him see the absurdity that is life. But he refuses. He just refuses!" And he stomped his foot, clutching his fists by his side. "Why does he refuse?" He cried. "Why can't he see what a stupid waste of energy his feeble struggle is and just give up! Give over to madness! Harley?" His voice had been growing to a shout, and dropped to a quiet entreaty as he spoke her name and turned to her. How could a silly little thing like that answer him? Still, he half expected her to.

She was staring at him, enraptured, quietly adoring. "You just have to keep on trying." She said softly and he laughed. Threw back his head and roared. Bless his soul, she _had _given him an answer! And a good one!

He held out his hands to her and she took them and he pulled her up and whirled her about, as far as the chains around his ankles would let him. She laughed, gasped and he jerked her against him, relishing the way her eyes widened and she trembled, how soft she was, all curve and warmth.

"Do you trust me, Harley?" He breathed down into her face, and round-eyed, she nodded mutely.

He slipped a hand into her coat pocket, retrieved the panic button and pushed it into her hand, lifting his other to gently smooth back a lock of hair from her forehead. She shivered. Then he lowered her gently, tenderly to the couch and straddled her, gazing down into her eyes; eyes that were smart enough to be frightened, but not smart enough to run.

Her neck was soft as silk beneath his hands and she thrust her hips up against his groin as he pushed the air from her lungs, prevented anymore from getting in. Her skin grew hotter beneath his touch, seeming to pour in through his pores, connecting them through the flesh. He got hard again, revelling in the way she squirmed and gasped, clawed at her throat, choked but did not press the panic button. It was gorgeous.

And then it happened.

She stopped struggling. She dropped her hands, pressed them against his thighs. He felt her body relax beneath him as she surrendered herself to his will. She looked up at him blissfully, nothing less than love shining behind her baby blue eyes.

It drove him crazy.

Made his mind yammer, hunger curl in the pit of his belly, fury bubble like lava in his chest.

He wanted her. In some way. He wasn't sure exactly. But he wanted her.

He released her throat and she gasped in air and coughed, her chest heaving upwards. He soothed her, lifted a hand to her forehead and brushed back her hair, stroking her cheeks, crooning softly to her as she sputtered and lay there, looking euphoric.

It was almost better than feeling her life slowly ebb away, that look of ecstasy. Now, more than ever, he knew she was his. One by one she'd steadily switched off the lights of sanity and reason, of normality and law until there was nothing left illuminating her world but him and there was no where left for her to go except to follow him.

He slipped a hand down behind her neck, cradled the back of her head, lifted it a little off the couch. Her hair was dry silk against his fingertips, the weight of her head rolling in his palm. She was utterly still as he hovered over her, seemed paralysed, still recovering from the strangulation – or simply too enthralled. He flattered himself it was an equal measure of both. She breathed in sharply, her expression one of disbelieving hope as he held her, gazing down at her with lidded eyes.

He bent down towards her and she gasped, trembled violently and lifted her chin, inclined her lips towards his.

He pressed his lips to her forehead and kept them there for a long, slow moment.


	24. Session 86: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**TWENTY-THREE**

_**Week Forty-Three: **__**Session #86 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

She sat in her chair, tapping the low court heels of her shoes in a frantic rhythm, her heart frenetically fluttering, pleasantly sparkling fireworks going off in her belly.

The moment was almost upon her.

These days she had two high points a week and everything else was a long, drawn out, mind-numbing, heart-aching build-up to those points.

He was brought in, smiling that devilishly charming grin at her and she felt herself lift - her entire spirit and soul and heart.

She couldn't quite get over it. As often as she thrilled and delighted, she also poured over the mystery of it: that things had turned out this way.

For the first time in her life, she finally felt like she was understood.

Melissa had left her a message over the weekend: "_Hey Harley. I'm really sorry about the last few months. Sorry we've drifted apart. Would you like to meet and talk about it? Call me back okay."_

Ha! She wanted to laugh at that silly girl. Like she needed anyone as vapid and vacuous and content with mediocrity as Melissa. Like she needed any of them anymore.

It didn't seem real. Not only had she found a true confidante, a true kindred spirit and even a true… _dare she think it_… soul mate (and how it thrilled her to think those words!) in a _patient_, but a patient like _The Joker_. An acknowledged genius. A brilliant, unique mind. A complex, fascinating individual. She wasn't the only one who thought so. She'd read those very phrases in absolutely dozens of books and essays.

And this magnificent genius, the unique and brilliant soul - he was interested in _her_.

He'd said so himself. _They were two of a kind._

Someone had finally seen what she was worth.

Harleen finally knew what it was to be appreciated. Suddenly she got it, the way it felt to have someone have real pride and faith in you, to be behind you all the way. To support you and always be there, willing to listen and care, unquestioningly. No wonder people loved it so - it was magic. Pure magic.

They'd even gone over his file together a few times now, reading over the words of past psychiatrists, dissecting and mocking their hare-brained, ignorant ideas. He'd even been kind enough to review her own notes, give her one or two hints and pointers in the right direction. She'd been so grateful for his insightful input, gleefully sitting as close to him as she dared on the couch while he thoughtfully poured over the files, nodding and chuckling at regular intervals. How it had warmed her inside to see his intelligence and naturally perceptive nature at work. How delighted she had been when he'd praised some of her work and how willing she was to take his criticisms. It was all helping her to be the best she could be, after all. Like he wanted her to be.

Now, as his ankles were fastened to the couch, she smiled encouragingly at him and waited impatiently. Since he had kissed her forehead the other week, she was finding it increasingly difficult to resist throwing herself across the room at him as soon as the guards shut the door behind them.

But she could _never_ do that. It would be an absolute abuse of power. An incredible betrayal of his trust. It was up to her to protect him and that included from herself.

But that kiss… unthinkingly her hands fluttered up to her forehead… she could swear she still felt it there. Warm and comforting. So lovely.

Why, for a moment, she'd even thought he'd been going to kiss her lips. Her cheeks grew hot at that thought and a tingling sensation spread through her loins. Before that moment, she'd never dared imagine things between them moving that way, even as she acknowledged her attraction to him. Now, all her thoughts were tortured by fantasies of his face close to hers, that moment just before he'd kissed her forehead - his lidded eyes, the softness of his mouth. Followed quickly by the next - his lips closing on hers, warm and captivating. The two of them, wrapped in each other's arms, kissing deeply, hungrily. She made herself giddy with such thoughts. The other morning she'd even caught herself almost driving off the road, so engrossed was she in her dreams, so delirious did they make her.

She stared at him for a moment, roving her eyes up and down his beautiful, long form. She had looked at those photos, from his medical files again. She imagined him undressing in front of her now, revealing that perfect, gorgeous white body. An otherworldly creation. Something straight from Heaven.

His hands around her throat. That had been… incredible. She'd never experienced anything like it, the unbelievable sense of trust she had felt and how she'd been flooded with absolute peace in acknowledging that trust. She'd stirred too, down below. She'd been wet afterwards.

She realised he was looking at her curiously, smiling a little, and she started and felt her cheeks flush hot. God, couldn't she maintain at least a little professionalism! She couldn't abuse her position like this, fantasising openly about her patient right in front of him! All he had been doing was making sure she trusted him and here she was turning it into some twisted sexual thing!

"Am I helping you at all?" She blurted out in sudden distress. He looked surprised.

"Whaddya mean, Doc?"

She drew in a deep breath, dropped her forehead to one hand. "I feel like… I just wonder. If I'm doing anything at all to help you."

She had pinned the photos up on the mirror in her bedroom. Sometimes, when she got home at night she would slowly dance in front of them to the strains of Billie Holiday and Duke Ellington, music he'd recommended to her. Slowly, in her darkened bedroom, imagining his eyes upon her, she would dance and strip.

Her cheeks grew hotter. He was still looking curiously at her.

"Of course you are." He said warmly. "Doc, haven't you noticed? Our time together means so much to me. It's so wonderful to have someone to talk to. To listen to me. I've trusted you with so much." He added pointedly.

"I know." She reassured him. "I do realise that. I suppose I just wonder if I've really earned that trust."

"Now, why do you say that, Doc?" He coddled her and she sighed, rubbed her forehead.

"I'm having a conflict." She confessed. If he only knew how much! "As your Doctor, I'm meant to help you work through your issues. Which would only really work if I properly understood them. I think I'm getting there. But I need more help."

He smiled at her sympathetically, his face creasing with gentle understanding. "Poor Doc. You just tell Uncle Joker. How can I help out?"

She grinned shyly at him. "You're so patient with me. I understand how much you've been through in life. How abused you've been and how lonely and how that's left you so vulnerable and hurting. Needing to lash out - to try and make the world appreciate you, to laugh. But I need to work with you on the -" she struggled to find a tactful way of putting it. "The whole 'murder' thing. It's the big issue we need to work on. I need you to tell me how we can begin to deal with this matter, what will help you in - uh - deconstructing these urges and channelling them. I mean, I don't understand why you - why you kill. I-I know you don't agree with me either and I so want to help you. Can you - can you tell me?" She trailed off and looked at him anxiously, biting her lower lip.

He sighed, lay back on the couch, folding his hands on his stomach. She felt momentarily guilty - he looked so thoughtful, genuinely considering what she had said and in truth the answer was mattering less and less. She just had to stop thinking of him naked.

Though she really didn't think it was a good thing to kill people. It was the key issue that kept coming between them. The only one left, really.

"Doc," He said softly. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself. Most people don't even try and understand, but you do. You're half-way there." He darted her a smile and her eyes sparkled. He had such faith in her. "Do you remember the talks we've had - I know that you do, you clever girl - about how absurd and empty a farce life is?"

She nodded - as strange as it had seemed at first, she was beginning to understand it. When you thought about it - _really_ thought about it - there was nothing all that - that - meaningful about it all. Except what you made of it. Which was just what he was saying now:

"One has to give their life meaning. Strive to define themselves. Most don't. Most simply fall in line and play along and wonder why they feel so empty inside." As much as it hurt to admit it, she knew how that felt. "The reason is, deep down they _know_ - they know how pointless existence and its accompanying struggle is. At the end of it, they croak and there's nothing really to show for it all. Maybe they just go to sleep and die one day, maybe they get hit by a passing semi, maybe they fall and break their neck in the shower. Or maybe they get noticed by someone different. Someone extraordinary. Someone like me."

He sidled his eyes sideways to her and she felt her heart leap. He had noticed _her_ - he _had_!

"You see, Harley?" He said softly, lifting his hands up and grinning charmingly. "I give them a gift. I give them something by which the world will remember them - something that elevates them above the status of the common and trite. Through death at my hands they are made so much more than they could ever have hoped to be." He had sat forward, his eyes fired and wide, drawing one arm in an arc in front of him, slowly closing his fist. "And I don't discriminate! I'm not selfish like that! Oh no - I give my gift to anyone and everyone, anyone who takes my fancy!" He winked at her and she heard a strange little noise burst up in her throat, something like a squeak. "Well, Harley sweetheart, isn't that what brought _you_ here?" He swung his legs over the side of the couch again and sat forward, locking eyes with her. "You wanted me to do that for you, didn't you - to write your book, become recognised - to be more than all those silly, stupid people - your Father and your Aunt, your friends and professors - thought you were? More than _they_ are?"

It struck at the very heart of her, those words. Yes, it was true. That's what she had wanted. But how she hurt then to be reminded of it. She had been selfish. She had almost taken the heart of this vulnerable lost soul and crushed it.

She blinked rapidly at him and he paused and reached over the space between them, wrapped one large thin hand around hers and yanked her up, hauling her down beside him. Her stomach lurched at this subtle assurance of his strength, the feeling of his skin on hers, how she caught the scent of his shampooed hair as she sat.

"Now, now, sweet Doctor. No tears for Uncle Joker. Because you got something better, didn't you? You and me, Doc. Two of a kind. Understanding. Appreciation. You were already exceptional."

How she wished she could believe that - could he really mean it? She gazed up at him with what she knew was a hopeful, longing look, her lower lip parted and he smiled down at her in such a - _nurturing_ way.

"That's why we've grown so close, you and I. Not for you a name to be added to an ever-growing list. Oh no. I share something with all my… blessed. But you - we have something special. Something unique."

Suddenly he stopped, and drew back, blinking at her uncertainly. When he spoke his voice was hesitant, even - oh God - slightly trembling: "At least - that's what I thought. Do you not agree?"

The poor darling! He was so vulnerable - so afraid she'd hurt him, like so many others had! She leapt forward, lifting a hand to his cheek, cupping it gently. "Of course, of course, Mistah J. It's true, I feel it too. It's just - I'm still getting used to all this! It's so wild - so radical - but so wonderful! Don't worry. I'm here for you." His skin was smooth beneath her hand, just the slightest roughness over his jaw, indicating the beginning growth of stubble. She imagined his cheek rubbing against hers, down her neck, his face pressing against her breasts, her stomach, her -

She choked, and without taking his eyes off her, he turned his head slightly inwards against her palm, his lips just brushing it. "Really?" He breathed and his breath was gorgeously warm and soft against her hand.

"Absolutely." She whispered, unable to draw her eyes away. For a moment it seemed like the room had gone dark - had faded out altogether - that it was she and him, sitting alone together in some strange vortex.

He shifted his face away. "It's just that - well, I guess a pretty girl like you has so many others vying for her attention. Others who aren't locked up and medicated three times a day." He finished sadly, dropping his eyes to the couch.

She felt breathless, suddenly enraged at the system which had so long neglected him and prolonged his suffering - that had _failed_ him, completely and absolutely failed him.

She would not.

She took his face in both hands and turned it towards her firmly. "Listen to me," she said to him decidedly. "All my life people have been turning their backs on me. Ignoring me. Even when I started here, my friends didn't understand my new responsibilities. How complex your needs are. You're the only one who's ever really understood. If it wasn't for you - I'd be all alone."

Suddenly she had to stop and swallow hard, fight back tears that rose to her eyes. _Don't cry_, she scolded herself. _You know how much he needs laughter and joy - he wants to see you smile, hear you laugh, not moan and groan. He's already been so patient with you. Smile! Smile!_

And she forced a smile onto her face, felt it wobble as she made her lips go up, bared her teeth, felt the corners of her eyes grow wet with her tears but damnit, she got there and he lifted a hand to his chest and seemed almost to shuck, his eyes growing wide and delighted.

"For me, a smile when the world has been so cruel to you? Harley, my dear, how that touches my heart."

"You taught me how to smile again." She told him earnestly and his own smile spread up, so bright and wide that suddenly she didn't have to force it anymore. It was there and natural on her lips and felt so wonderful. So liberating.

He lifted his hands and took hers in them, those beautiful, articulate long fingers wrapping about her own, squeezing them tight, and gazed straight into her eyes so that she felt the floor seem to fall from beneath her feet, felt her head begin to spin, gloriously trapped in that brilliant purple gaze.

"Laugh and the world laughs with you, Harley." He whispered.

--

_Ooohhhhhhhh I'm such a tease. _

_In about two chapters the rating will go up to an M. Add this story to your alerts now!_

_Thank you to all of you for your continued support. It truly thrills me beyond belief. I feel like we're all in collusion together on this story. It's lovely. Please continue to review and share your thoughts, it is much appreciated._

_My question for you all: where do you want to see this end? What would you like to see happen before the end?_

_I already have a pretty clear idea of when and how it's going to end... and I can't promise I will change that... but I sure don't want to disappoint anyone!_

_Also, if you are enjoying this fic and the way I depict their relationship, please check out my other JokerxHarley fics! Many of them are short one-shots and are a little lonely and would love to have your thoughtful words attached to them! ;) _


	25. Session 90: The Joker

**TWENTY-FOUR**

_**Week Forty-Five: **__**Session 90 - The Joker**_

"I don't really understand why someone as brilliant and intelligent and creative as you would take an interest in someone like me." Doctor Quinzel had confessed to him at some point. Exactly when was all a bit foggy at that particular moment.

Truth be known, he didn't quite understand it himself.

But one had to take their fun where they could find it. And Doctor Quinzel was certainly a great deal of fun.

But that day he didn't feel particularly well.

This was unusual. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the contrasting series of unpleasant sensations. They seemed incomprehensible, so alien were they to him. He didn't really ever get sick.

But they'd changed some of his medication. Increased the dosage of some others. He generally needed higher dosages because he had such high resistance - or outright immunity, in some cases. But they kept on trying and experimenting. He rather though it might be one of Doctor Arkham's little ways of punishing him for all his naughtiness.

But one had to take their fun where they could find it.

His head spun. His stomach heaved. He was moving a bit slower than usual.

It was an effort to disguise it, to behave as though everything was as it always was. He couldn't - _wouldn't_ - let onto the guards that anything was amiss. That the great Joker could be felled by an unpleasant combination of particularly strong anti-psychotics and sedatives. Just another step in the game and he was always a play ahead.

He focused on rage, but it wasn't enough. He focused on survival instead, imagined this as the difference between life and death, and it helped - he felt the comforting pump of adrenalin begin. It perked him up. But even that reacted against the medications and while it enabled him to soldier on, now there were strange flashing bursts of colour and shape behind his eyes, streaking across his brain like lightning.

It was making him furious.

"Doing a bang-up job, chums," He praised Ethan and Ross as they chained him to his couch. White-hot rage simmered deep within him, but his voice bubbled coolly. "Keep this up and you'll be promoted to monitor watch, soon enough!"

Doctor Harley screwed her little nose up in the effort not to laugh and the sight made him chuckle a little. Such a cutie. She made him laugh at least.

Nearly everyone made him laugh, but she did it intentionally sometimes. That was speshul. Special.

No sooner had the door clicked shut behind the guards then he reeled, sank back against the couch, felt his muscles unclench, heard Doctor Harley gasp.

"Are you all right?" she exclaimed, flying off her chair and kneeling on the floor beside the couch where he was, infuriatingly, trembling. "Have they been hurting you again?"

The room spun and he realised he was shaking his head. "No chance… Doc. Couldn't get… near me. Not even on a sunny Tueshday."

A very blurry Doctor Harley's face was in front of his own, squinting at him anxiously. She'd noticed him slur. "Doctor Arkham's changed your medication again, hasn't he?" She sounded _furiosh. _Furious. "He's _supposed_ to consult with me! I'm your Doctor - how can I protect you if he does that!"

He heard himself giggle, grin dopily at her. "Take it eashy, Doc." He managed. "Let Doctor Arkham have hish little fun. You watch. In two daysh I'll be on top of it." He puffed his chest out proudly. Then rolled his eyes upwards, watched the ceiling careen out of control. Like being on a rollercoaster. Whee.

"It's not right." Doc Harley was saying. "They shouldn't force your body to adjust to this. No wonder you can't make a full rehabilitation. Not only is your system bamboozled by these drugs - but it must feel like such a violation!" For once she did not sound on the verge of tears. She was too angry, on his behalf.

He opened his mouth to say something sleazy and vaguely funny, something like _"I'll show you how a violation feels!"_, but what came out instead was: "Rebecca, put _The__Cocaonuts_ on will you please, I could do with a laugh."

Before his blurred gaze, Doc Harley's face was suddenly still, her eyes wide and bright as she gaped at him. "What did you say?"

He chuckled, raised an arm above his head. It felt odd and heavy. He waved it around. "I shaid I'd violate you sho you could know how I feel."

She seemed oblivious to the innuendo. "No," She said earnestly, lifting a hand to press gently against his forearm, pushing it back down by his side. "You called me Rebecca."

Her face flickered and he narrowed his eyes at her. The lines of her cheeks and jaw blurred and softened, her oval face became rounder. Her silly blue eyes grew smaller, close together. They looked brown now. Her lips were pink. Her hair was still blonde but was short, an old-fashioned crimped style, down around her ears. The sight of that face stirred something inside him. Something foreign and discomfiting.

Nausea overwhelmed him, bile burbled up in his throat and he sat abruptly up, twitching.

"You're delushional." He giggled at Doc Harley. It was Doc Harley again. That was better.

Doc Harley was looking at him very carefully, her brows knitted anxiously together, a deeply concerned light in her eyes.

"Who's Rebecca?" She probed him gently.

He wanted to hit her. Very, very hard. But his arm felt too heavy. He giggled instead.

"A girl. An angel. A dream. Who knows for shure?" He heard himself say flippantly. "She had a nice fella, I think. Or maybe he wasn't sho nice. I can't quite recall."

Doc Harley was still kneeling on the floor, her worried face fixed on his.

"Was she -" She began tentatively, "Was she someone you - you cared about?"

He laughed, a long cackle that lightened the nausea for a moment. The very thought - _him _caring about someone! She was such a pip. As soon as he stopped, the nausea began again though. He grimaced, placed a hand on his stomach.

Her hand crept onto his. He stared down at it curiously. It felt so - incredibly soft. And fragile. He could crush it. Finger bones broke easily. He could break each finger, each knuckle, one by one. She would scream. He would enjoy that.

He lifted his hand and placed it over hers. It felt too heavy to lift again, especially with the weight of hers too. So he left it there.

"You never thanked me for paying your student debtsh." He mumbled and she blinked, shifted forward.

"What was that?" She probed him gently.

"I don't mind." His head was swaying slowly from side to side. A wave of noise roared up in his ears, the din of music and the chatter of people. The clank of a glass set on a wooden surface before him and the sweet, bubbling laughter of a pretty girl. He shook his head slowly, and the roar subsided. He did not look at Doc Harley, staring carefully down at the floor between his shoes.

"I did it because you reminded me of what wash important. But it would've been nice, Leeny. Polite." He turned his head to her, leered drunkenly. "I forgive you."

She was looking very puzzled now, but was slowly getting to her feet, gently wrapping her hands in his. "I want you to lie back for me now," She was saying softly, "I'm going to get your medication changed back to what it was, but for now I just want you to lie back."

How sweet she sounded. How concerned.

He went along with it, chuckling to himself. He kept his eyes riveted open, gazing up at the ceiling. Every time he shut them something bright and furious flashed behind his eyes.

_That blonde woman. Soft kisses. Rain on his eyelids. Tender kisses on a round belly. _

_A bowl of shrimp. A small apartment. A bar. A woman's laugh. _

_Hot lights and a microphone. People throwing things. Drinking. _

_A blonde waitress. Smiles. Soft, encouraging words and an invitation lurking in sparkling blue eyes._

He was going to need to blink soon.

Doc Harley was sitting on the couch next to him, her rear pressed against his thigh, her hands on his, gazing down worriedly into his face. He kept a grin fixed onto it.

"I want you to take a deep breath, Mistah J, Joker." She was saying. "And try and relax."

He tittered at her. "I'm trying, Jeannie. I'm trying. I'm always trying. Don't you know how hard I try? I'll take care of you. I schwear."

Was that voice his? That voice with that plaintive, desperate timbre? It couldn't be. Someone had swapped out his voice box. They would probably sell it on eBay. Not fair. If anyone should profit from that, it should be him.

"Shhhhh," how tender her silly face was. He could just imagine the way it would crumple beneath his fists, how bright her blood would be on those creamy, pale cheeks. "Just relax, darling. I'm so sorry."

Her eyes were bright. She was crying _again_. And she'd been doing so well. If he could get his hands around her throat, he could shut her up _permanently. _

"You've never talked about - your - relationships." She was saying softly, perhaps even a little wistfully. "About the people who've loved you."

He heard himself laugh again, a strangled and gasping sound. "They loved another man."

Her face was so sorrowful. Why couldn't she smile? "He's still in there. I've seen him. I know him." She was saying. What? That didn't make any sense. In where? Who?

He rolled his eyes onto her and leered again. It seemed the best course of action. "I don't feel quite like myshelf," He confessed. "Am I smiling?"

She nodded, leaned forward. "Don't worry, my angel. Your smile is beautiful. Despite everything." Her cheeks were wet. He wanted to lick them, bite them out. "You're still smiling."

He didn't need to blink anymore. His eyeballs felt slick, moist. He was relieved. Those little flashes had been very unpleasant.

"How much pain you must be in." She said softly, sorrowfully, her hands gripping his tight. He turned his head to look at her and something wet and warm smeared down his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose. His jaw felt tight. "How alone you must feel. Not anymore. You'll never be alone again."

He wanted to scream, but a laugh got stuck in his throat. Why could she never get it? He was trying so hard to rub off on her and yet still…

He _liked_ his solitude. He wasn't in _any_ pain. He loved his life. He loved what he was. He liked his medication _sometimes_, when it didn't interact so horribly with his overactive imagination.

His limbs tingled. He shook his head vigorously. The nausea fled away and he blinked his eyes rapidly. His eyelashes were damp. Naughty Doctor Arkham, making him leak fluids! If he suffered dehydration, he was going to write a very stiff letter of complaint. Yes, a very stiff letter… on cardboard.

He giggled at that. "That was fun!" He declared. "Goodness me, Old Jeremiah is a mischievous monkey!" His voice sounded bright, strong. The words came easily. He was feeling far more himself again and he revelled in the sensation, as all the glorious little threads of ideas and memories and dreams he had pooled together once more and he basked in the wonderful knowledge of his last six, magnificent years. He was The Joker.

What more could be said?

He peered at Doctor Quinzel.

She was fumbling in her pockets and withdrew a pink handkerchief covered in red hearts and he idly admired her dedication to constructed femininity. Then she was leaning over and pressing it against his cheeks. What the hell? Her hanky smelt like strawberries. How cliché.

"It's unacceptable," she was saying with righteous indignation. "I'm going to go straight to Arkham after this. He should be ashamed of himself." She folded the hanky in half and wiped tenderly at his face again, her expression alive with compassion and fervour. He found it odd that he simply lay there and allowed her to do it. Why? What was the angle?

He began to feel jittery.

His mind was whirring frantically. What had he done? What had he said?

He suddenly felt in remarkable danger.

But not from Doc Harley, surely - a little thing like that - what could she do to him?

Why the hell had he let go once the guards left? It didn't make any sense. He'd managed to hold on around them. Why couldn't he have kept up the show until he was back in his cell, when he could've just gone to bed and blanked it off?

She'd done something to him.

The little tramp. She'd done something. Infected him somehow, in some way. Manipulating him into revealing his lapse. Now she knew. And he was infected. Infected with _her_.

He clenched his fists. Kill her. Kill her now. Before she could tell anyone.

He sat up abruptly, and she started back a little. He coughed, smoothed back his hair and straightened his pyjamas. Presentation was always important when it came to things like this. No excuse for slacking.

She had no idea what was coming. She was still just _sitting_ there, gazing up at him tenderly, her face absolutely riveted with compassion.

"You poor thing." She said, and her eyes were still shining. "What the world has done to you. I'll make it right. I swear it."

He eyeballed her curiously. Could he use this? She didn't seem to know they'd gone off-script - seemed to think it was all still a part of the show. Waste to kill her now, really. When he'd put so much work into her. He never had to tell her it had been an unscripted moment. And if anything - it seemed to have her put even further into his thrall.

So maybe he'd done it all on purpose. Yes. Of course he had. Just another brilliant orchestration on his part. He was so very, very clever!

"Harley!" He said tenderly. "You're the first person who's ever really cared about _me_."

He rather thought that might be true. And for a moment that nausea returned and he swallowed hard against it.

But then daffy Doctor Quinzel was beaming, gazing up at him with adoring, tear-dampened eyes. His own were dry again and when he blinked there was nothing but the random burst of inspiration and the delightful flash of a bloodied smile that he so knew and loved.

One had to take his fun where he could find it.

--

_Joker's scattered recollections are from Legends of the Dark Knight: Going Sanec, The Killing Joke, Batman Confidential: Of Lovers and Madmen and Shadow of the Bat: The King of Comedy. _

_I'm personally not a supporter of any background story as being the 'one true' Joker origin. But I like the idea his imagination creates these various stories for him, betraying the last skerrick of humanity he possesses. _

_I've always liked the idea it exists deep within him, flickering dully away. But I'm very particular about how it's depicted. He still has to be himself - and he does love what he is - can't detach from his nature and personality. And yet, now and then this little human vulnerability flares up. And I don't think it affects him the way it does ordinary people. The emotions are so foreign to his nature that they confuse and bewilder him. He cannot understand or process them, rather than it gets him down and mopey._

_Of course, this chapter was taken from Arleen Sorkin's immortal words: "Everyone else sees The Joker laugh. Only Harley has seen him cry."_

_This story will be rated M with Chapter 26 - so in two chapters time. Add this story to your alerts now! After the next chapter the rating goes up!_

_Keen to hear your thoughts and thank you for all your words on the last chapter._


	26. Session 91: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**TWENTY-FIVE**

**Week Forty-Six: **_**Session 91 - Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

She now understood how a broken heart felt.

The shock of it reminded her of the time she'd fallen through the ice of the lake in Robinson Park one winter. Her Aunt had told her to 'go away and play like a good girl' and leave her alone. She'd sorely resented Harleen's pleading to be taken out to play with the other kids, and had only finally agreed because she remembered there was a knick-knack seller in the park who had a string of beads she wanted to buy.

Harleen had been skating, exchanging cautiously friendly words with the few other kids there, glancing back now and then to where her Aunt sat and read her book, not looking up once.

Harleen watched an older girl do beautiful tricks - pirouettes and twists, her lean, strong body defying gravity before the blade of her skate hit the ice, sure and steady and supporting her easily. A few people gathered at the lakeside admired her, clapping gently and at the noise, Auntie had looked up. Looked across the lake. Looked at the older girl and watched as she skated in a wide arc before leaping into a beautifully executed double twist. Auntie smiled.

Harleen hadn't understood the strange, gnawing emotion that swallowed her chest just then. But she'd been studying gymnastics for almost a full-year at that stage and her work on the balance beam was improving 'out of sight', her coach said. She could twist in the air and land on the beam with one leg. The older girl did it so easily. Harleen could too.

And so she'd skated. Bent at the knees and pushed forward, envisioning what her small, childish body would look like mid-air. How everyone would turn to look at her and admire and marvel. _Everyone._

She'd jumped and the icy air had bit meanly at her cheeks. She spun her body, arms out in what she imagined was a graceful, balletic pose, and immediately felt the drag of gravity against them. She hadn't expected that. Should've kept them close by her, until she'd gauged the force needed to complete the spin.

It slowed her. She was coming down, the park with its bare, twisted black trees and bitter white landscape, blurred past her, then stopped. She was going to land badly, she could tell. And it was going to hurt.

Behind her someone shouted, "hey, look!" Briefly, she felt a swell of triumph, despite the bungle, but then her skate was hitting the ice.

She hadn't accounted for it being so slippery.

Her foot skidded forward, and once again the world tipped around. She briefly caught sight of the mottled grey of the sky before her eyes squeezed shut with the force of landing, smack on her rear, her head clunking down a second later.

_Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry_, she willed her nine-year old self and then there was a fearsome crack.

She only had a moment to dumbly wonder what bone she'd broken and how irritated Auntie would be, when she was engulfed.

In her drive and focus to get the best speed, the best force behind her not-so-triumphant feat, she'd skated right up to the flags that marked out the danger zone without realising it. The twist had taken her right over.

The ice-cold water left her breathless and gasping, her lungs feeling suffocated and crushed beneath the pressure. Her heartbeat sped up, each beat like a punch against her sternum, aching and awful. The water seeped straight through her layers of clothing to prickle her skin like a thousand needles. No matter how hard she struggled, she couldn't get away from it. It encompassed her absolutely and refused to let go, consumed her thoughts with agonised desperation and left her body overwhelmed and screaming.

She knew nothing for those moments before her rescuers reached her except agony and fear and the compulsion to escape both.

Even the numbness that set in shortly after she was pulled out was a type of pain. It made her body a stranger to her, an unwelcoming and protesting host. All she knew was the wrenching urge to get away from it.

Sitting in their session room, she gazed mournfully at the couch that awaited his presence. How empty it seemed without him. How empty the room was. How empty her _life_ was…

She'd thought she'd known heartbreak before. Her third boyfriend, whom she'd believed at the time would be 'The One'. A post-graduate she'd keenly fancied but never done anything about, only for him to announce his engagement to someone else. Even the ending of a friendship with another girl - a friendship that had skirted the boundaries of romantic and made Harleen _wonder_.

Only now she could see those fleeting passions as the childish infatuations they were.

She'd called in her first sick day the day after he'd cried in her arms (she hadn't been going to see him that day anyway. There wasn't really any point in going in), and spent the day bawling herself, wrapped up under the comforter.

The sight of him weeping had - _done_ - something to her. She couldn't find the words for it. Something about the strange, almost disconnected way his physical body had mourned his lost soul while his eyes focused somewhere far, far away, had affected her deeply. Had left her Changed.

The way he'd collapsed as soon as the guards left. What trust, what intimate, precious trust, that showed. His need to hold a smile, to maintain his sense of humour - such bravery. His trembling hand on hers and the odd, mysterious things he'd said. Even the slur in his voice had wrenched at her.

Seeing him like that - broken down and lost, against his will, forced to it by an unethical so-called doctor - had shattered her.

She hadn't wanted to let him go at the end of the session. It had been almost beyond her to move back to her own chair in time for the guards' entrance. Even though he'd seemed much more himself, watching him led out by - Er- Evan and the other one - she'd wanted to run screaming after them, drag him back in and protect him with her own body. None of them understood him. None of them cared. None of them had seen what she had seen. To them, he was nothing but a monster, and the thought of him lying alone in a cold, dark cell, thoroughly misunderstood and disregarded, had shattered her.

At home, she'd held his pictures and wept brokenly over them. She'd known that if she went back into the office, she would confront Doctor Arkham, demand she be allowed to see him, demand to know just what the hell Arkham thought he was doing. To tell him everything she knew so that he could finally see how much damage they were doing, that he was more than just a killer and more than just an animal.

But she _couldn't_. Joker had _trusted _her. Her, above anyone else.

Joker had told lies about his past, of course. Everyone knew that. It was a defence mechanism, a way of protecting himself against those who would only hurt him with the truth. Only to her had he entrusted that truth.

But that day, she'd gone deeper, deeper than anyone could ever imagine going with him. He'd let slip, unconsciously, not just details - but _names_. He'd spoken of love. Of women he'd - loved.

It compounded her misery. Those names haunted her. Jeannie, Rebecca, Leeny. She couldn't erase them from her mind. Who were those women? How had he known them? How _intimately_ had he known them?

She couldn't bear those thoughts, but she couldn't get away from them, either. Those names played out again and again across her tortured imagination. She pulled apart the letters, spelled them out, wondered if she'd got them right, moved her mouth over the syllables. Which one had he loved most? Did he still love her? Was it her he thought of in his darkest moments, her he longed and yearned for?

How could he ever see her - consider her - with the thought of this woman haunting him? What had happened to her - to _them_? How could she expect to possibly hold a place in his heart if it was consumed with this other woman?

She felt herself drowning again. And just like before, there was no escape.

She could barely manage a smile when they brought him in. She wondered if it showed, the change that had happened to her - if the guards could see the drawn tightness of her features, her pale cheeks and over-bright eyes. Her eyes roved her patient's body longingly. The sight of him overwhelmed her with desire, and longing. She mused constantly over his beauty, and yet every time she saw him in the flesh it struck her anew. It made her feel sick with need. Her entire body quaked with the urge to touch him, to be close to him. Fresh tears sprung to her eyes.

Somehow, she'd forgotten. Forgotten that he was her patient - that there was no hope for anything between them. Could never be.

Yet she'd lost sight of that. Had started to… hope.

Now that she knew what a broken heart really felt like, she knew she'd never recover.

Joker was quiet and thoughtful as the men chained his ankle and departed the room. She couldn't speak, not with the mess of emotion brimming inside her, and instead watched him silently, pressing her lips hard together.

_Be strong_, she urged herself, _be strong for him_. No doubt he was feeling vulnerable after their last session. She should smile for him, that would cheer him up. She could tell him a joke. She'd been scouring the internet for good jokes she could tell to him at the start of their sessions. But, for the life of her, she couldn't remember a single one right then.

Then he spoke.

"Y'know. My father used to beat me up pretty bad."

She couldn't stop her jaw dropping open. This was really it. After all this time - waiting for him to trust her again after she'd revealed her former book-writing plans, waiting for him to feel comfortable and secure to go really _deep _with her, and the moment was finally here. Her mouth went dry.

He was staring straight ahead at the far wall, his expression blank and eyes wide.

After the other day, he'd clearly made a decision. He was coming forward to meet her, to demonstrate his faith in her. To trust her fully. She felt overwhelmed with privilege and apprehension. Was she really worthy?

Her heart was beating frantically. She wasn't sure if she should say anything. It might break the spell. He needed to feel safe, secure in his sharing. Finally, she just nodded, not even sure if he was aware of it.

"I never had to do much." He continued. "Or maybe he didn't need an excuse. Any step I did wrong, any little mistake and BAM!" He started forward, swinging his arm in a savage motion and she jumped. "He'd wallop me. Or y'know, sometimes I'd just be sitting there - doing nothing - and THUD!" He kicked out with one leg and she recoiled. He sighed and flopped back on the couch. "Pops tended to favour the grape, y'see." He said mournfully and she nodded.

_Childhood trauma, perceived rejection by father, need for approval formed…_

"We were poor, y'see. My Dad did odd-jobs for the neighbours. My Mom took in laundry. We barely made ends meet. Can ya blame Pop for feelin' the need to drown his sorrows?"

She was careful to keep her expression neutral but inwardly she thought: _never mind that any money he spent on the booze could've bought food for the whole family! _Harleen had little patience for selfish drunks. Especially ones who picked on innocent little boys.

Joker's face was still as he wandered about the paths of memory, then suddenly he chuckled. "Pops had a hard life, and never found much reason to laugh. But there was this one time I saw him really happy. The circus was in town - you went to the circus as a kid, didn't you, Doc?" And she nodded encouragingly. Yes, we've shared so much! "And well, we managed to scrape enough together to go. Pops was real keen on it. Somehow, I got the feeling it was one of the only happy memories he had from his own childhood. Me, I was just glad to do something with my Dad that didn't involve him drinking or whacking me."

_Possible family history of abuse, circus intuitively understood as potential bonding experience…_

"So off we went and wowee! What a circus, Doc! They just don't make 'em like they used to. This one had dancing bears, and tigers with a magnificent trainer in a gorgeous scarlet cape, there was this cute little dog act, all these adorable little puppies running around doing tricks, fantastic jugglers and a beautiful girl - the first pretty girl I ever remember noticing - in pink tights, who flew on the trapeze, high, high above our heads! Wow! I couldn't believe my eyes! I bet you would've been good on the trapeze, Doc - and hey, she had blonde hair, just like you!"

He darted her a bashful little half-smile and her heart lurched a little. _God, maybe, maybe there is hope… a little hope…_

"But the very best part of all," He continued, and now the grin was sidling up his mouth again. "Heh, heh. The very best part was - the _clowns_!" The way he said it all chuckling delight had her smiling, remembering the clowns at the circus when she was a girl. Her friend Becky's mother had taken her because her Aunt wouldn't. It had been one of the _best_ days of her childhood life. "Oh, Doc! You shoulda seen 'em! Riding the little push-bike in one big formation, tripping each other up, falling over their own big feet! And there was this one little guy - real little urchin, ya know - the dogsbody of the group! Oh they gave it to him good! He had on these ridiculous over-size trousers and he'd struggle to keep up with the others only to THWAP!" And Joker kicked both legs out, threw his arms up in the air as she watched, entranced. She couldn't help but laugh, seeing the funny little clown in her mind's eye! "He'd fall over, straight onto his keister! Ha! And no sooner would he get up then down he'd go again! Or while he was waddling around, those trousers would fall down around his ankles, revealing his polka-dotted shorts! The audience was in stitches! And my Dad - ha! My Dad couldn't get enough. He was in hysterics. I thought he'd bust a gut! It was great! After a while I stopped watching the clowns and just watched my Dad! How I wanted to be able to make him that happy! Maybe if I could just make Dad laugh, I wouldn't be so much trouble to him."

_Connection made between laughter and approval, approval perceived as love…_

"So, Doc, the very next day, when Dad came staggering in from the bar, I greeted him wearing his one pair of Sunday bests, proud as you like and ready to knock his socks off. _Hey Daddy_, I cried, _lookit me_!"

She burst out laughing as Joker leapt to his feet, holding his arms out wide, aping the disingenuous, wide-eyed exuberance of a boy desperate to please his father.

"Then I dropped those trousers around my ankles and took an enormous pratfall, tearing the seat right out of his slacks!" He dropped his pyjama bottoms, revealing his own white shorts. She shrieked and covered her eyes even as she continued laughing, peeking through her fingers at the beaming performer who towered above her, cackling along. _A born performer_, she thought deliriously as amusement took over and she giggled while he bent over and slapped his knee and their mingled laughter filled the air. _I wonder what his Dad…_

"And then he broke my nose." Joker suddenly said and abruptly she stopped laughing, her head snapping up to stare at him.

He'd sat back down on the couch, looking thoughtful. "I guess that punch line was his. Still, I like to think maybe somewhere deep down inside he was a little bit tickled. And who knows? Maybe that kick was him joining in - maybe he was aiming for my heiny and missed. It seemed easy enough to believe under the influence of morphine three days later at the hospital."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. She gazed at the beautiful, philosophical face before her, the face that despite all its trials, continued to smile, and said, aghast: "He _kicked _you in the face? You were in hospital for _three days_?"

Joker darted a glance at her, then shrugged. "Oh come on, Doc. I'm used to that sort of thing by now. Batman's always doing the same sorta thing. Hey, that reminds me of that breakthrough you made Doc, about Batman and my Dad being so much alike - neither of them have ever been much good at taking jokes. But I guess I live in hope."

She felt like her heart was breaking. How could he bear carrying all this pain inside him? She could barely stand just the thought of it. How could he just accept this horrendous treatment, so easily, so complacently - is it all he believed he deserved? Is this how he had become so locked onto his path of maniacal comedy - had he managed to convince himself over the years that a violent reaction was equal to some sort of - of love? Of approval or participation in the act? No wonder he was so obsessed with Batman - Batman had responded just as his father had! Brutally, cruelly and with absolutely no sense of humour.

She levelled her gaze on him and clasped her hands together in her lap. "I want you to know," she said evenly. "Just how much I appreciate the trust you've shown in me today. I consider it an honour. And I thank you for sharing."

He smiled at her bashfully. "Only you, Doc. I could only trust you with this." How it thrilled her to hear him say those words! "And I feel so much better, I really do, like a weight's been lifted. Thanks Doc, you're the best!" And he held his arms open to her and without even thinking she stood and moved over to the couch beside him, going willingly into his embrace.

She wrapped her own arms around his slim waist and rested her cheek against his chest, breathing him deeply in, relishing the feel of his lean, strong arms around her. He hugged her tight to him, resting his cheek against the top of her head, and she felt her heart begin to pound, felt a rising heat in the pit of her loins. God, she could stay like this forever, and, unthinkingly, she nuzzled her face into his chest.

She felt him stiffen and fearful, she lifted her face to his, suddenly afraid she was going too far. But he was staring down at her with a strange expression - not discomfort or distaste - but - could it really be?

_Desire? _

Yes - yes it was! He was gazing down at her with those dreamy purple eyes as full of desire as she was sure hers must be.

The tension between them grew as they sat silently in the small, dim-lit room while the clock ticked steadily on the wall and they held each other. She marvelled at the perfection of his angular white face, how attractively the locks of green hair fell across his forehead, how noble and strong his long nose was - and how - how lusciously kissable his gorgeous red lips were.

His expression flickered as she lifted her head a little.

"Harley," he whispered, and his voice was like a caress, "I'm old enough to be your father."

She blinked liquid eyes at him. "I've always preferred older men." She said throatily and the ghost of a smile flickered across his mouth.

Then he lowered his head down to hers.

As their lips met she felt a wave of ecstasy flood her. If she had not understood heartbreak before this, neither had she known the ecstasy of a real kiss. God, nothing had ever been like this before. Not her first kiss from her first boyfriend, or even the first kiss from the first boy she'd loved. None of those kisses could possibly hope to match the feeling of his mouth playing softly on hers, how he tenderly, sweetly captured her lips up, gently guiding her. She felt a flood of molten sensation spread out through her loins, felt herself grow suddenly wet, and she swooned as he softly probed her mouth open and flickered his tongue inside. How was it possible for a simple kiss to feel as powerful and all consuming as sex itself? Indeed, more so?

Was this really happening? Her head swam and even though the feel of him against her was acutely real, so real her senses were utterly overloaded, she couldn't quite believe it. Was her dream really coming true?

She could scarcely comprehend it, but it was. His arms tightened around her again and she submitted herself to his embrace as the kiss grew more passionate. He was so gentle, and yet he was in complete control; he held her in thrall with his mouth, she could do nothing but let him lead her in just the way he chose. She could get drunk on this, become delirious and completely enraptured, spend the rest of her days reeling over his kiss.

But then, suddenly, he was pulling away and she heard a little plaintive cry escape her throat. He chuckled as his lips slid from hers, let his nose press against her own.

"I'm sorry, Harley," he said huskily. "Please forgive me. I just couldn't help myself."

"I wanted you to." She protested softly, savouring the heat of his breath on her face. "Don't apologise. I hope you don't feel I've abused my position."

He looked mildly shocked. "Of course not, sweet pea. Though," and his voice dropped, throaty and wicked as he murmured against her neck. "There's a position or two I wouldn't mind abusing with you."

She couldn't help but giggle. She felt giddy with delirium. God, he was so - charming and mischievous. He was so - _delicious_.

_And he wanted her._

It was too glorious to be real. She'd wake up any moment. Yet still her lips tingled where he'd kissed them, still she could taste him on her tongue. Still, his arms were wrapped around her and she encased securely within them.

He sat back, pulled away from her a little and almost immediately she felt cold and adrift. He glanced over at the wall clock.

"Time's up, Doc. Better scoot back to your chair before the boys enter."

--

_The scenario and some of the dialogue in this chapter is from the comic Mad Love. All hail!_

_I'd rather leave this chapter to stand alone, but there's some comments it would be rude not to respond to:_

_To Mary: Thanks for your review and nitpick. I love a good nitpick! And I've learned something today, which is awesome! Thanks again! :D I definitely would review your stuff, but you didn't tell me where to find it and weren't signed in! :( And yes, I do beta and love to beta. My spelling is very strong and my grammar is pretty good, but not as good as yours! Hehe. XD_

_Is Someone Who Likes This Story still reading? What about others who have been a little quiet? Am I falling short of your expectations, have you lost interest, just occupied elsewhere, or simply have nothing to say? Would love your thoughts!_

_NEXT CHAPTER WE GO UP TO AN 'M' RATING. Add this story to your alerts now!_


	27. Session 97: The Joker

**TWENTY-SIX**

**Week Fifty: **_**Session 97 - The Joker**_

The Joker was in an excellent mood.

Things with Doctor Quinzel - _Harley _- were working out far better than he could ever have dreamed.

The dear, simpering little sweetheart was just the perfect audience for his genius. She at once fully acknowledged his brilliance, and yet was incapable of fully _comprehending_ it! Ha!

He really had to congratulate himself. That kiss! How marvellously he'd performed that little _coup de grace. _If he didn't have her before then, he had her now. And the remark about being old enough to be her father - he just bet she'd squirmed in her panties then! _She'd always preferred older men! _He just bet she did.

Yes, all in all it had been a rather beautiful piece of art so far. He'd really outdone himself with Doctor Quinzel.

The best part was that, since the kiss, she was more willing just to sit there and listen to him. She didn't take notes anymore, no longer made any pretence to treatment or therapy - or even that she was still in control. Just sat beside him on the couch and gazed at him adoringly while he spoke to her. No more listening to her whining drivel about her mean old Aunt and screwing fat professors for grades. And she was so - _receptive_. Mouldable.

How could he not love it?

"We're all of us mad here, Harley." He was murmuring to her right then, an arm wrapped tight around her shoulders, holding her pressed up against him. "All of us, nothing more than animals. Beasts. Can you deny it?"

She shook her head earnestly and blinked wide eyes at him.

"We're all nothing more than base animals, struggling through life, grasping to be the ones who survive. We all have the same urges, needs, desires. We all have the same instinctive fears, the same gnawing lust, the same passion to take and get what we want, regardless of the consequences. The funny part is that we so love to pretend that we _don't_. That somehow, we're superior to all other creatures because we have these cute little systems called _law_ and _government_ and _society_. We have these darling little abstracts we dub _morals_ and _ethics_ and we divide ourselves into neat little camps of good and evil, right and wrong. You know what makes it so funny, Harley?"

"Tell me, Mistah J." She said obediently and he chuckled and squeezed her tighter.

"Indeed, I will, pretty Harley-girl. What makes it so funny is that it's nothing more than illusion. Pretence. A simulation, even, we've been saturated in since birth, our visions glazed with comforting images, conditioning us. Training us. That's all it is, Harley." He lifted a hand and began tracing it on her inner thigh. She made a soft little noise in her throat, shifted, and let her legs part a little. He'd taken to slipping a hand up her skirt, fingertips grazing her inner thigh, brushing so close to her panties, but not quite getting there. Her breath would catch and she'd wiggle, trying to urge him closer. But he kept up the tease. He did it now, tracing playful little patterns on the tender skin. "And, because none of us have ever known any better, we all just follow along, playing the game, performing the little roles we've been assigned. Behaving' ourselves. A mindless, conforming hive."

Her eyes were like saucers, her slack lower lip was wet. He wanted to bite it; wondered what her blood would taste like.

Eventually he would let his fingertips flicker just over the seat of her panties. They were usually cotton, which he found interesting. It didn't gel with her sophisticated young businesswoman image, but he liked that better anyway.

She'd wiggle, and whine quietly, frustrated and yearning for him to touch her, but he wouldn't. Her squirming was far more fun. Then he'd kiss her, and she'd throw her arms up around his neck and surrender to him with ecstatic, muffled, hilarious noises.

"But you know what happens if you don't want to play the game, Harley? If you don't want to comply with your assigned part? If you defy these false institutions and behave exactly as your nature dictates?"

She nodded, gazing at him, her expression suddenly exquisite with adoring sympathy: "They lock you up. They ostracise you and reject you." She recited it like a parrot and he smiled down at her, loving the sound of her high little voice. "They label you - they've labelled you, my angel. It's so unfair. What they put you through. They label you and lock you up. They can't see that you're the only one who understands the truth." Her eyes actually welled with tears, so distraught was she and he resisted the urge to throw back his head and crow.

"But you understand now, too, Harley." He whispered instead. "I'm not alone anymore."

She sniffled, her eyes brimming with gratitude. "I can't believe it took me so long to see it. But I see it so clearly now. My gosh. All my life, I've been trapped."

"Not anymore," He pressed his forehead against hers, slid his fingers up a little higher, chuckled. "You're free now. I've set you free."

"Thank you." She whispered fiercely, her baby blues drowning in his. This was magnificent. He'd done this.

He slid his hand up further, finally brushed his fingers against her and found bare flesh. He'd expected it would happen eventually but he let his eyes widen in surprise and a slightly wicked grin quirk one corner of his mouth

"Why Harley, you naughty bad girl!" He teased her and she blushed like a ripe tomato. He ran one finger lightly up her slit, feeling the hint of dampness that lay within her, then withdrew his hand.

"I feel quite taken advantage of", he said, his voice wavering somewhere between amusement and indignation, and she was mortified.

"I'm so sorry!" She grasped him by his pyjama top, clung to him. "Please forgive me! I don't know myself these days - I can't think about - about anything but you! It's like - like I've gone - wild!"

There was something very sexy about it, he had to admit. She was unravelling rapidly right before his eyes.

"I have a hard time thinking about anything else as well." He confided in her and she gasped with delight.

"Really?" She said, as though she could scarcely dare believe it. He nodded seriously.

_I think about locking you in a tower and listening to you scream as your mind peels away like an onion til there's nothing left but paper thin scrapings and bitter tears._

"We're two of a kind." He said out loud. And in a way, perhaps, it was partly true.

Who else had ever gazed at him like this and said with fervour: "Everything you say - finally - makes so much sense. I mean, if it meant anything, I would've studied - those professors would've said no to me - my aunt would've cared - my dad wouldn't have left. I wouldn't come here wearing these stupid reading glasses." And suddenly she ripped them off her face and threw them across the room while he watched, delighted. "And these stupid suits, trying to live up to their stupid idea of what a proper doctor is, only to fail again because I'm not exactly like them!"

She was getting quite worked up, panting, and he encouraged her. This was fun.

"I told you once before, remember, that I could see there was more to you. I could see you were _alive_. That you were trying to constrain yourself into one of their stupid, pointless little boxes."

She was teary-eyed now, running a hand up through her dishevelled hair. "How could I have been so _stupid_? The problem was never me - it's them! It's all them! Why have I tried to be something I'm not? Someone I'm not?"

"Never deny your nature, Harleykins." He said warmly.

She whirled to him, gazing at him with abject passion. "It's you I really feel badly for, Mistah J. An artist like you going unappreciated! A genius being ignored - passed over! How could they! How could they lock you up in here and just dismiss you as a monster and never even look at the _real_ you! Never even pause to consider the things you've been through at the hands of those humourless, unappreciative brutes! Oh Mistah J!"

"You're the _only_ one who understands me, Harley." He said emphatically, grasping her shoulders tight, staring into her eyes with his very best lonely puppy-dog look.

She choked, sobbed, then threw her arms around him and smothered him with an unrestrained kiss. He reeled a little. Whoah! This dame behaved like she wanted to devour him. He struggled to get control beneath the onslaught of her mouth, the way she thrust her tongue into his mouth like she was trying to swallow his soul… he lifted a hand, cupped the back of her head firmly, pulled away and placed his lips on top of hers, coaxing her back into his slower, lazier rhythm - the one _he_ directed.

And, deliciously, she grew limp in his arms and her mouth was soft and her tongue sweet and she surrendered to him so beautifully, it was quite captivating. He dropped his hand to her neck and stroked it, smiling at her and she nodded, eager, and he gently put pressure there, obstructing her air waves. She gagged quietly, her eyes clouding over with bliss while he played his lips softly over her throat and décolletage, then released her and, without quite knowing why, ran a hand back under her skirt and touched her again, revelling in the feeling of how wet and hot she was for him.

"Yes, Harley," He murmured. "You're the only one who's ever really understood me."

She beamed euphorically.

--

_Sorry about the tease. But this does warrant an M rating. Hehe. Don't worry, it'll get raunchier soon enough._


	28. Session 101: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**TWENTY-SEVEN**

_**Week Fifty-Two: **__**Session 101 - Dr. Harleen Quinzel**_

Her mind was in a frantic whirl; it tormented her night and day.

How, how had she spent her whole life so blind?

How could she have misjudged him so?

It didn't matter. She'd finally seen the truth. The whole, real, beautiful truth. And it was him.

The Joker.

All of a sudden she was looking at everything differently. It was as though a veil had been lifted. As though she'd gone her whole life with a film of mud over her gaze and he'd washed it away.

The world was a joke. Life was a game. Once you figured out how to play it, all worries and anxieties faded swiftly away. You were freed.

She was freed.

She could barely restrain her joy as she near-skipped down the corridors to their session. All her life, she'd been playing a part, burying herself beneath the weight of others' expectations. Never realising that _none of it meant anything._

There was only one thing that meant anything in the whole wretched world and that was laughter.

And he was laughter. He was joy. Freedom.

So the only thing that really meant anything was Him.

Opening the door to _their_ room, she shut the door with a hasty click and hugged herself, squealing a little. She'd clicked though. Once before. What she'd done to get her grades - she'd caught a glimpse of the Truth then. She'd played the game and come out on top. Like he said - they were two of a kind. Of course, the anxiety of exposure had weighed heavily on her shoulders since - but that was lifting now. Now she knew how to play the game, she knew exposure could never ruin her.

She'd gone over Joan's head again to suggest to Doctor Arkham the debriefing sessions were no longer necessary. Joker's excellent behaviour was the best testimony she could have to support her and Doctor Arkham had made a point of complimenting her progress. Joan was confused and anxious, gently probing Harleen to find out if there was something else going on, but Harleen had hastened to assure her all was well. Better than well.

She still liked and respected Joan. But she was terribly afraid Joan would perceive her true feelings for her patient, would realise something was going on. It had already been getting hard enough in their Friday sessions, trying to give nothing away while still reporting on the sessions. And she just _knew_ Joan wouldn't understand.

It was _so hard_ to behave professionally when Ethan and Ross were still in the room, cuffing him by the ankles to the couch. It was so hard to restrain her joy, her ebullience. She was jazzed all the time now, twitching nervously, rapturously, a constant humming little tune playing on her mouth, stars in her eyes. Her every waking moment was bliss, thinking of the next time she would see him, would be near him.

He'd hold her on his lap. God, he was so comforting, so nurturing and tender. He'd stroke her hair.

He'd listen to her. No one had ever really listened to her before. No one had ever understood what had been going on inside her. But he did. Oh boy, did he!

And… he seemed to feel the same way. He really did. The way he kissed her - she'd never been kissed like that before!

And he was _such_ a gentleman. Boys had always tried to get into her pants as quickly as they could before. He _respected _her. He was happy to wait. He'd even said - and her eyes brimmed with joy - that he wouldn't want to risk her career by going all the way at Arkham!

God, like her _career _meant anything! He knew it didn't - but it was _so sweet_ of him to act like it did.

She'd never known anyone like him before. How could there ever be anyone else like him?

Now there he was, smiling at her conspiratorially from the couch as those two silly guards finished chaining him down. _They_ should be the ones in chains! She stuck her tongue out at their backs as they left, and her darling tittered.

"Cheeky, Doc." He said approvingly and she beamed at him. "You look like you've got something to say to me."

How did he always know? She hadn't even realised it herself until he'd just said it.

"I guess - I guess I do."

He patted the couch and she went over hesitantly, feeling suddenly shy. What she was about to say was possibly the most significant thing she ever would say - ever.

"The thing is -" She began, and then paused. He peered gently into her face and she smiled at him, then lowered her head. "You'll think I'm crazy."

"Oh, Harley, come on." He scolded her gently. "Am I the sorta guy who's gonna judge you like that, when I've been judged so much myself."

She felt stronger again, sat up straight. "Of course not. Oh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Baby." He coaxed her. "Just tell me. Tell Daddy."

_Oh God. _Something gripped her inside; she swooned.

"I love you." She gasped and he drew back, his eyes wide and astonished.

"What?" He breathed and she came forward, reached out for him.

"Oh please, try to understand. I never meant to fall in love with you. I swear. It just… happened. Please don't feel betrayed. It's just that - you've awakened me. In so many ways. You've made me see the truth about the world. About myself! And you listen to me - really listen. You're so -" and she sat back, threw out her hands. "- So brilliant! So creative! So remarkable. You dazzle me. Not that I'm blaming you!" She hastened to assure him, not wanting him to feel like any of this was his fault. "It's just - oh, I know how horribly unprofessional of me it is. But I couldn't stop. It crept up on me before I was even aware of it. And I think - you know, Puddin' - I think it was destiny."

She turned to him and he continued to stare at her, his eyes wide and curious. She let out a little laugh, turned her head up to the ceiling. "Don't you see? My whole life - striving to be a gymnast but being injured so I couldn't go to the Olympics! But it was okay because I was good enough to get a scholarship! And with that scholarship I got to study psychology! And my professors were agreeable and - helped me out - " a sly smile might've flickered across her face then, " - and I got to intern here! And you looked at me!" She felt rapturous, clasping her hands together, gazing up towards the ceiling. "My first day. You looked straight at me. You winked. And I knew you had to be my patient. I just didn't know _why_. Now I do." And she turned to him again, clasped his hands in hers, felt tears prick her eyes, blur her gaze. "For you. To be by your side. To discover the beautiful angel beneath the demon everyone else sees."

He was gazing at her wonderingly, as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Well, of course he couldn't - he was so used to being unloved, to being rejected and despised! The idea that anyone could love him - the poor darling, it probably felt like some surreal dream.

"But I'm a killer." He said flatly and she sobbed, squeezed his hands tight.

"No, Puddin'! I mean, yes, you are, but that's not _your_ fault. Don't you see? That's your awful Father's fault, all the horrible things he did to you. It made you want to be an performer - to make people laugh - to show them how absurd everything is and then what happens?" And suddenly she felt herself get furious, stamping her heeled foot against the ground. "That awful, self-righteous _Batman_ swoops in and abuses you. Just like your Father! So you have to keep on trying! You have to keep on trying to make him _see_. So you continuously up the stakes! And so what! As you yourself pointed out, it doesn't _mean _anything. You're just trying to point that out - to share the joke! But all he does is abuse you more and ignore you. And your sweet inner child continues to be neglected, crying out for attention. All you need is love, my angel. And I love you! I love you with my whole heart!" She came to a sudden stop, panting, her breathing ragged and slightly hysterical. Her cheeks felt flushed hot, her eyes bright. Until she'd said it all out loud she didn't realise just how passionately she believed it. How much it meant to her.

Just how much she really did adore him.

It was so immense it overwhelmed her. She swayed, tipped forward and he caught her, his hands strong about her, pushing her back onto the couch while she swooned.

"I love you," she muttered. "God, how I love you."

"I'm not sure I deserve this." He said uncertainly and she threw herself up, grasped hold of him again even as her head spun and he grimaced nervously and gently eased her back.

"Never say that!" She declared passionately. "You deserve love! Everyone deserves love! Oh God, do you think I'm a complete idiot? You do, don't you? How could someone like you ever have feelings for someone like me!"

Because as surely as the full realisation of her love had hit so too had the realisation that he was hopelessly out of her league. He was out of the whole _world's_ league. And she burst into wretched, plaintive sobs.

Her darling Joker didn't seem quite to know what to do at first. He sat there, watching as she wept, lying back on the couch where he so often had rested and spoken to her, a slightly baffled expression on his face. How could she blame him? She'd just unleashed a massive burden onto him, and with his fragile spirit, he probably couldn't handle it… oh God, if she'd ruined things forever… she would never forgive herself… never, never, never…

Joker looked about him for a moment, searching for something, then reached down to the hem of his pyjama top and pulled it up, leaning over to tenderly wipe her tears away. _He was so sweet._

"First of all," He said sensibly. "I don't think you're crazy, or an idiot. As you yourself pointed out, you've always been a driven, ambitious young woman. You've deliberately abstained from fun and pleasure. Denied yourself the simple joys of life in favour of your career. It's the most natural thing in the world for you to be attracted to someone who reminded you of those joys, someone who could make you laugh again."

It was as though his foot had been crushing her heart, and now he'd lifted it, flooding her with perfect relief. Her face lit up and she beamed at him.

"Second of all," He continued, grinning at her a little wickedly. "As I've said to you before, you and me… we're two of a kind."

Her eyes widened. Was he - did he - was he just saying he _returned_ her feelings?

"You mean - you and me - "

He looked at her with a gravely affectionate smile. "Oh yes, Harley. You mean you didn't already know?"

This was better than a dream. It was a dream come true.

"Really?" She squeaked, and in answer he bent down and kissed her.

_Mmmmmm. _There really was nothing quite like his kisses. They made her feel all warm and gooshy inside, all molten hot and creamy whipped. She could get addicted to them - maybe she already was.

There had never been a soul like him before. He was so exciting, so sexy, so intelligent. And yet, underneath it all beat the heart of a little boy, just trying to make people laugh. Her heart ached for him even as it burned. How had she ever gotten so lucky?

She wiggled against him, lifted a leg to wrap it around his waist. She wanted him. Wanted him _now_, right there and then on the couch. She couldn't live without him anymore.

He lifted a hand, began to toy with the buttons of her blouse and she groaned and thrust up against him.

Suddenly he broke the kiss, leaning back, a little breathless and laughed. He ran a hand back through his hair.

"I'm sorry, Harley." He said apologetically. "But I'm still vulnerable. I'm just not ready."

She was wracked with disappointment but couldn't help but understand. Of course, the poor thing would be. She nodded. "Of course. I understand."

"It's not… that I haven't thought about it." He assured her, lowering his eyes before sidling them back up to her face with a sly grin quirking his lips. "A _lot_." And she felt herself flush - God, he was _so sexy. _"It's just - well, you understand. Have you thought about it, Harley?"

Was he kidding? "Only every night for the last three months!" She confessed, and felt herself flush even brighter.

He raised an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes at her wickedly. "Have you just? Ever done anything about it?"

She gasped, scandalised, while he grinned, then lowered her eyes. "Maybe." She said in a small voice and he chuckled. It simultaneously embarrassed and thrilled her - he was just so devastatingly powerful.

He sat back a little, placing a palm flat on the couch on the other side of her body, looking down to where her skirt rode up on her thighs. "Show me." He breathed and she gasped in sharply.

"I - I - I couldn't!" She stammered. "I've never done anything like that before."

He had lifted his hand and was toying with the buttons of her blouse again, then stroking his fingers out over her breast. Her nipple tingled and grew hard beneath his touch. She had a sudden vivid flash of what his mouth would feel like on it and gasped again.

"Do it for me." He coaxed her. "Give me something to take back to my cell with me. It gets so cold and lonely in there, Harley. Besides, I've liberated you now. No need to feel shy. Especially not around me. We've shared all our secrets, remember?"

It was such a … embarrassing and exhilarating suggestion - she wanted to - but - Oh! How could she? But he had already dropped his hand and started to push up the hem of her skirt. She'd stopped wearing panties weeks ago. He was about to - _bare_ her.

"I love the way you wear stockings, Harley." He murmured as their tops came into view. "Proper ones." He traced a finger over her garter strap and she trembled violently. He smiled a little to see it, then raised his eyes to hers.

"Show me." He commanded.

Obediently, her trembling hand moved between her legs.

--

_Some dialogue in this chapter draws inspiration from Mad Love._

_I do think Joker wasn't quite prepared for her loving him. He knew she wanted him and he knew he was breaking her mind - but I don't think he quite anticipated the love._


	29. Session 102: The Joker

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT**

**Week Fifty-Two: _Session #102 – The Joker_**

The Joker had ants in his pants.

He'd been _such_ a good boy. Really. It had been _years_ since he'd killed – or even maimed – _anyone_. Or maybe it was only months. He wasn't sure, exactly, how much time had passed since he began playing with Doctor Quinzel – time was such an abstract concept that he didn't bother overmuch with it unless it could do him some service – but at any rate, it _felt_ like years. Or how he imagined years would feel if he paid real attention to them.

He was very proud of himself. Really, it just went to show exactly what a fellow could accomplish once he put his mind to something.

Especially when that something had been so delightful a diversion as Doctor Quinzel.

After all, _anyone_ could maim, murder and mutilate, he told himself. Killing was easy, once you found out how much fun it was.

But what he'd done with Doctor Quinzel – now _that_ was a true tour-de-force. Not everyone – not _anyone_ could so deliciously twist and distort a sweet, tender little mind in the fashion that he had with hers. He couldn't _wait_ until Batsy found out. Not yet, though, not yet. He wasn't quite done with his masterpiece and he wanted her to be absolutely perfect. And she was bound to be useful, very, very soon.

But – but when the world did find out…

It made him giggle and squeeze his toes at the thought. When the world found out, what things they would say about him then!

And Batsy would absolutely blow his biscuit!

Nonetheless. The Joker had ants in his pants.

And Doctor Quinzel wasn't helping. Not when she sat there, with her pretty white throat and her adoring blue eyes, and her lovely blond hair.

He imagined wrenching back on that hair, pulling it out at the roots, pushing her eyes out with his thumbs and strangling her as the sockets gushed blood.

He shifted uncomfortably on the couch as the guards exited. How much longer could he trust himself with her? He really, really wanted to show her off to the Dork Knight, but he wasn't sure if he was going to make it that far! A horrible yearning sensation was coiling in the pit of his stomach, making him feel sharp and furious with need.

He imagined her throat collapsing beneath his thumbs, the way his laughter would ring in her dying ears, biting her cheeks and tongue as she sweetly expired.

And she would expire so sweetly. Of that he was sure.

Doctor Harley was peering at him curiously, noting the tension that riveted his body as one leg jiggled and he wrung his hands hard together. He flickered his glance up to her, grinding his jaw, and she must've seen the hunger in his eyes because her lids suddenly lowered and a silly little smile sidled up the side of her face.

Of course. Trust her to entirely get the wrong idea about what it was he wanted to do.

"I've missed you so much…" she breathed, one hand fluttering to the buttons of her blouse, toying with one suggestively.

He imagined her head snapping back as his fist connected to her jaw, the crunch of bone on bone. Of ripping her blouse open and scooping into her chest cavity with his bare hands, the way her breasts would bounce as she convulsed, how the blood would spatter and burn his face.

"Lock the door," he snapped at her quietly. She blinked at him, glanced at the door. He snapped again: "_Now._"

She jumped. Then leapt up to comply.

Nincompoop. Did she really miss the warning?

Or – a far more tantalising thought occurred to him. Did she _like_ the warning?

His eyes glittered as Doctor Harley quietly clicked the lock over, before stealing back to the couch to sit down beside him. She was nervous, he could see, nervous and excited and in love.

He recalled how quickly she'd gotten her rocks off that first time he'd told her to jill off for him. She'd been so embarrassed about it, sitting up quickly afterwards and tugging her skirt down, her lovely cheeks flushed. But that had been part of the thrill for her. That had been fun. Heh.

Turning his head to leer down at his daffy Doctor, he lifted one arm and dropped it around her shoulders. She swallowed hard.

She knew. She knew things were different, somehow, that day. She knew and she was unsettled.

And she still didn't get up and run.

"So Harley," he whispered, smiling, "it's just you and me in here."

She beamed, despite herself. "Yes," she chirped, "just the two of us."

He lifted his arm, stroked his fingertips over her hair. The thing about Doctor Harley was he rather thought she might've, in her ardour, forgotten who he was.

He couldn't have that.

"Don't you ever get frightened of me?" He continued softly, stroking strands of hair away from her forehead, flickering his eyes over her face. "Knowing my history?"

Immediately she started in with the whole misunderstood and ignored bit. _Oh sweetheart, they just don't understand you're trying to make a difference to the world, you're so sensitive and damaged and they just hurt and disregard you. _It annoyed him. He was still what he was, and that was perfect. She should be frightened. Despite all else.

He shushed her with a finger pressed against her lips. They were partway turned to each other on the couch and he bent towards her, noting the way her breathing picked up when he got closer, how her nipples were peaked beneath the thing fabric of her blouse.

"Misunderstood, yes. That's true." He whispered, because it was. "But that doesn't change what I do. You remember what I said to you once – how death is my gift to the ordinary?"

She blinked rapidly, her forehead creasing. "You said I wasn't – or – ordinary."

He had the feeling her breath hitched not so much from fear but from the dismay he might think her one of the lemmings after all.

He chuckled. "No," he whispered, bending closer still. "You're not. For you it would be something… special. Death would only be the end. Just imagine it…"

He paused and let the silence grow as her eyes darted about in her head, her imagination going crazy over all the things he could do to her. Of course, they were nothing compared to the things he came up with. Oh no. She didn't have _that_ much imagination.

And oh, yes. Yes, her eyes were widening. She started to tremble. She had gotten past it, past remembering his dangerousness. It was nice to remind her once more.

He pressed his forehead against hers, as close as when they kissed. He considered this a more intimate moment.

"Have you ever thought about it – really considered how much trouble you might be in – if I had a little – mood?" He couldn't keep the teasing from his voice.

"You – wouldn't do that to me." She gulped. Her eyes were bright. But she wasn't just scared. Oh no. There was something else in those blue depths.

He grinned. "You really think so?" He lifted a hand and stroked her throat. He could feel her pulse fluttering within it, doubled. It tripled as he stroked his fingertips along it. Delicious. She was a bit of a tease herself, Doc Harley. Here she was, practically within the grip of a notorious mass-murderer and she _still_ couldn't bring herself to move away from him. One could be forgiven for thinking she had no survival instinct at all. It was naughtiness. Sheer naughtiness.

He felt his grin widen as he sidled his eyes up and down her transfixed little face.

"You're a bad girl, Harley." He said nastily. "You wanted to write a book about me."

Her eyes brimmed, and he could see the distress that welled in them. "I thought – I thought you – for – forgave – "

"Stand up, Harley."

His voice was his instrument and he used it to perfection. From soft and caressing, he made it cruel and frightening in an instant. He had seen the way the altered timbre of his voice had terrified others, startled and shocked them into compliance.

Harley was no exception. She started, leapt to her feet, trembling before him.

Even standing, she stood barely a head over him. He tipped his head back and smiled up at her, loving the sight of her quivering shoulders and trembling lip. She was terrified, oh yes, but she was miserable too – she didn't want him angry with her.

Slowly, nonchalantly he stood, unfolding his long body until he was towering over her.

She quaked beside him, confused and miserable, terrified and – and excited. Yes. He could see it in her eyes, a tiny sparkle there beneath the fear. He smiled to himself.

"Bend over, baby." He breathed. He made his voice tender, so tender he might've strangled her – it sounded all the more like a threat. She hesitated.

He pressed the fingertips of one hand into the small of her back and down she went, her hands coming forward to rest on the couch, balancing her. He stood back a little, peered down so he could see her face in profile. Her eyes were darting about anxiously, her brow furrowed, as she waited for what he would do next.

He dropped a hand to her back and stroked the small of it, gently, felt her tremble through the fabric. He smoothed his hand back over her rear, watching the way the fabric of her skirt indented beneath his fingertips. Her bottom was curved and firm and he cupped it gently and squeezed, listened with satisfaction to the shark intake of breath that came from her then.

He knew she was going crazy. She couldn't help being aroused and yet she couldn't be certain he wasn't going to really hurt her, either. And she _still_ didn't run away. God, he loved it.

He dropped his hand down lower, scooped it under the hem of her skirt then tugged it up. She hitched in her breath a little. Her knees were trembling, the muscles in her long and taut against the pressure of her high heels.

He smiled as the tops of her stockings came into view, attached to a soft cotton garter belt, the kind a girl in the fifties would've used.

He clucked his tongue as he pushed her skirt right up. She was wearing panties. Interesting. Full brief cottontails. After weeks of wearing none, she'd put some back on. Clearly, her little performance the other day had had a lasting effect on her, as thrilling as she might've found it.

He stroked his fingertips over them. There was the squeak of leather as she dug her fingertips into the couch. Her bottom was heart-shaped, softly padded – carrying a little extra fat that seemed incongruous with her muscled legs – the sort of fat an athlete puts on once they stop constant training. Sweet and sexy.

He stood behind her and hooked his fingers under the hem of her panties. She'd put them on over her garters, the way sensible girls do. It saved all the fussing when a girl wanted to use the powder room – or have an illicit tryst in a stall. He sniffed, and then tore at them.

The cotton resisted, then ripped and she made a little noise of terror and pain. One leg had pulled hard at her flesh as it had resisted, leaving behind a red-raw welt that ran from her hip, under one buttock and into the hidden space between her thighs.

He knew she would be wondering what was about to happen – if he was going to fuck her, finally fulfil the fantasy she'd been mooning over for months. But not the way she'd imagined it – not a tender, loving union of two soul mates, but a forced and brutal experience, vicious and terrifying…

Her breath was coming in ragged gasps; he recognised the sound of frightened tears. But that's not all it was…

He breathed in deeply, and caught her scent. He cupped her bottom again, now naked, and almost imperceptibly, she pushed back into his hand, the peachy softness of her buttocks pressed against his palm.

Or maybe it was exactly the way she'd imagined.

He began to stroke her again, softly and gently, tracing his fingertips in wide circles. Her skin was incredibly soft and smooth, creamy-white beneath the dim light overhead. He spoke to her again, his voice quiet and insinuating:

"Do you get off, remembering how you got off for a killer?"

She sniffled and he scowled. She was such a sniveller.

"You're not – " she murmured, " – not just a killer – "

No, he wasn't. That was true. He was _so much_ more.

It's just that he wasn't so much more in the way she believed him to be. Heh. Never mind.

He squeezed her bottom again. "You wanted all my secrets, Harley. You wanted to write a book about me and share them with the world."

He paused and squeezed harder. She choked.

"I've killed people for less than that." He reminded her quietly.

"I'm so-sorry – " She whimpered.

He fisted a hand in her bun, wrenched back so that she gagged, her eyes rolling back in her head with terror.

"You've told a lot of lies."

Her eyes darted about, staring up at him fearfully. "Yes," she admitted.

"Used people."

She hiccoughed. "Yes."

"Manipulated the system."

"Yes."

"You fucked your way here."

"Yes. Yes I did." There was a new note in her voice. Something faintly triumphant. He smirked, yanked back harder.

"Really?" He sneered. "You're not ashamed anymore?"

Something glittered in her eyes. Something altogether new – and interesting. "No." Her voice was strong.

He drew back his free hand and then brought it down with a loud smack on her rear. She yelped, her body rocking forward, then jerked back by his grip in her hair.

"Not even a little?" He growled at her, unable to help loving where this was going.

Her voice was stronger still. "No. I did what I had to. To get what I want." She stared at him defiantly, no longer quaking.

He smacked her again, harder. She bit her lip to choke back the yelp. Ha. She was _still_ protecting him from the guards' attention.

"Shameless little brat." He sneered cruelly, vaguely mocking, his voice dripping with derision.

She sniffled and a fresh tear rolled down her cheek – but a smile played about the corners of her mouth as well.

"And that book?" His pretext for this little venting session. Might as well keep up the pretence.

She pressed her eyes shut and smiled. "It brought me here."

He whacked her harder.

She gulped, but her voice did not waver. "To you."

And harder again.

"I'm not sorry." She hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes squeezed shut.

Still with his fist knotted in her hair, he raised his arm over her head, forcing her neck to wrench at an awkward angle, the crook of his elbow now pressing against her throat. He belted her hard and repeatedly and she rocked back and forth with the force of the blows, her hands leaving the anchoring stability of the couch to clutch desperately at his arm.

Without the couch beneath her palms she stumbled forward as he hit her, lurched drunkenly, but she did not let go of him, her fingertips digging deliriously into the white flesh of his arm

It was her comfort, he realised, holding onto him like that while he hurt her. Yes, despite it _all_, she still didn't have the sense to _run from him._

When he stopped, her bottom was bright red and already beginning to bruise, faint blue-black rising beneath the mottled red flesh. Her back heaved as she breathed in ragged lungfuls and she snuffled, swaying slightly, held up only by the arm he had wrapped around her neck and fisted into her hair.

He bent at the waist, over her back, his groin digging into her hip, to bring his face down right next to hers, the better to see her agony.

"Harley, I have to be honest: I really don't want to stop. You have no idea how much I've needed this. But I think you've reached your limit. Is that right?"

"I h-have." She sniffled.

Cheeky. He jammed his arm hard against her throat and she whimpered, gagged.

"I suppose you have," He whispered so softly, watching her shiver as his breath tickled her ear. "It's a shame, because I was having so much fun. I'd love to keep going. But I guess I should stop. Should I?"

For a moment she was silent and he waited, a delighted grin stretching up his face as he watched emotion flicker across her profile as she wrestled with the choice, between the pain flooding her and doing what he wanted.

Finally she squeezed her eyes shut tight and spoke:

"No."

Her voice was so soft when she spoke it wasn't entirely sadistic of him to ask her to repeat herself. Not entirely.

"What was that, Punkin?"

"N-no." A little louder, but not enough.

"No, what?"

"No… no, don't stop."

He pressed against her throat again, ground his hips against her rear, loving the way she jerked back at him, her whole body a confused mess of fear and desire. She'd take anything. Anything, so long as he wasn't angry with her.

"Don't stop what?"

He wanted to hear his name on her lips as she gave in, once more. Unpeeled one more layer of her sanity and gave way to his chaotic order. He expected he'd have a little more fun teasing it out of her, that she'd begin with _Mistah J_, or _Puddin_', stupid little twit that she was, and he licked his lips in anticipation of breaking her down, further, further, further.

Suddenly her forehead cleared and her eyes snapped open and she glanced sideways at him, her expression glittering with wickedness.

"No, don't stop, Daddy." She breathed coquettishly.

He felt his eyes bug, his jaw drop. Felt his grip loosen on her hair and the treacherous betrayal of _**his**_ body as he got hard and keen for her.

It took him absolutely by surprise, the sudden overwhelming lust he felt to tear her apart, do unspeakably perverse things to her tender body, hear her moan in agony and pleasure. His hardened cock was all too aware of the close proximity of her rear, of the dark, warm place between her thighs that was so hungry for him.

The only thing he could do in response was rear back and belt her again, and she choked and sunk her teeth into his forearm to keep from screaming. He didn't mind. He didn't notice.

He was grinding his teeth, sweat flying off his forehead as he whaled on her and when the first shock of his anger and lust subsided, he pushed her away so she fell over the couch and sprawled.

It was a delicious sight; that pretty, dainty little girl-woman sprawled so ungraciously over the couch he was supposed to be strapped down to, the torn remnants of her cottontails twisted around her ankles, her hair dishevelled and her face all red, gazing up at him with a mingled adoration and fear – and some sort of mischief as well.

He turned quickly away from the sight; aware he was still all too visibly aroused by her, that she might mistake this as some sort of power she had. Yes, she thought this sort of thing was power, that's what she'd learned from high school jocks and college professors.

He wondered how powerful she'd feel if he fucked her until she bled, until she wept and begged him to stop.

He half-laughed to himself, lifting a hand to wipe the sweat off his brow, push his hair off his forehead. He turned to look slyly at her and his hand twitched to slap the mischief from her face.

"I don't think you've learnt your lesson at all," he repeated.

Then she was smiling, just a little, blinking at him from lowered lashes.

"Well." She purred. "I learned _something_."

He boggled at her again. "Heh," he said in surprise.

She certainly had. The little tramp. He was angry, furious at her, but somehow he was titillated as well. Somehow, she'd forced some perverse respect from him, taking him by surprise, pushing for the next level. A stupid thing to do with someone like him. She was frightened, but she liked it. Liked the pain and the humiliation. Was this something latent he'd awoken in her, or was it more oriented simply around him?

She had pushed herself into a sitting position, was weakly bending over to tug her torn panties up, her hands trembling. He paced forcefully over to her, coming to an abrupt half and she looked up at him in apprehension.

"Did I tell you to do that?" He asked her gently. No need to shout, to snap, to scowl. She blanched before the quietness of his voice, more menacing than any scream could be.

He lifted his hands, began to play them softly over her head. She shuddered and shut her eyes.

"Have you thought about these things before, Harley?" He was curious. "Have you enjoyed these sorts of games with others?" He got a sudden image of the no-doubt banality of such games as played by some mundane thug – dressing her up like a schoolgirl and binding her with fluffy handcuffs. He shuddered. How dreadfully dull.

"No," she breathed to his immense satisfaction. "It's just you. Just you. You're the one who rules my soul. "

A bad song lyric. But he liked it anyway.

He knelt down before her, and grasped one of her wrists, his long fingers circling it entirely, forcibly shoving it up beneath her skirt, jamming her fingertips into her moistness.

"Tonight when you think of me," he sneered at her as she gasped, unable to tear her eyes from his even as she so desperately wanted to. "Think about me as I am. As I was today. If you love me, you love all of me. Don't you?"

"Yes." No hesitation there.

"You are mine." He hissed, holding her gaze in his.

"Yes." Or there.

"You belong to me."

"Yes. Yes." She breathed passionately. Ooh, double for nothing. Her eyes were beginning to glaze and he was hardening again. How wonderfully he had her. Owned her. Possessed her. He could feel the force of the energy between them, almost overwhelming in its power, the passion that drove her forward to him, how strong his control of her was and how he had consumed her.

He pulled her hand out, held it up between them. He could smell her, fragrant and sweet.

"My little Harley Quinn." He whispered, drowning her wet blue eyes within his. When he said her name, she quivered and slumped, all too clearly acquiescing to him, to whatever he wanted. Another sort of need rumbled in his gut.

He had been going to make her suck her finger, but instead found himself leaning forward, pulling the slim digit into his mouth, caressing it beneath his tongue before releasing it slowly, arresting her eyes in his all the while. She tasted like sugar.

Harley gasped hoarsely, gulped and stiffened, biting her lip hard as she twitched convulsively for a moment.

He grinned at the sight of her orgasm, laughed softly at her embarrassed flush then took her face in both his hands. Her lower lip quivered, her eyelids drooped. He came up close to her and she trembled, leant forward to kiss him.

He jerked away.

"Now, now," he hissed. "Bad girls don't get any sweets."

--

_Okay you lot, after all your cries of teasing and too-short chapters, that oughta keep you all happy for a while! ;)_

_Have you all seen The Dark Knight? I've seen it twice so far. I absolutely love it. The whole movie is magnificent, but The Joker in particular is sheer perfection. I'm just – overwhelmed. I won't say anymore, so as not to spoil it for those who haven't seen it, but by Joker – SEE IT SOON. It's amazing._

_On another note, I feel like maybe it's time I shared the truth about this fic with all of you. Maybe you will all hate me after this!_

_The truth is, this fic has been finished since April. Yes, all of it. _

_I decided to release it slowly, chapter by chapter, to make it easier for everyone to read. Reading thirty chapters in one go is time-consuming and would even be off-putting to many. I figured that if I released a chapter a week people would find it much easier to get into. Plus it would let me build up suspense, and a little anticipation alongside the impending release of the Dark Knight._

_I have made tiny little adjustments, additions and edits to some of the chapters since I wrote them back in April, but it's been pretty much finished otherwise._

_Don't hate me! Face it, releasing it this way was much, much better. Suspense is fun! :)_


	30. Session 103: Dr Harleen Quinzel

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE**

_**Week Fifty-Three: Session 103 – Dr Harleen Quinzel**_

_"He's a rebel and he'll never ever be any good, he's a rebel cos he never ever does what he should…"_

Harley Quinzel was singing softly under her breath as she skipped down the hallway to the room she had come to think of as her sacred place. The one place, in all the world, she could truly be herself.

She couldn't keep the smile from her face and Dr. Andrews shot her a curious look as they passed each other in the hall. She looked straight ahead as though she hadn't noticed him, and once he passed by, turned to poke her tongue out at his retreating figure.

Stupid mean old fogey! Ha! If he only knew – knew how much she'd accomplished that he could only dream of. She couldn't wait to see his face – when he found out.

_"Well, just because he doesn't do what everybody else does – that's no reason why I can't give him all my love!"_

When he found out …

Her skip faltered a little. When _would_ he find out? The Joker was way too vulnerable still to expose to their probing eyes now that she had delved further into the core of that magnificent mind. She couldn't do that to him. Not after everything they'd shared together. The trust he'd placed so wholly in her hands.

And besides – she knew it was unprofessional – but she couldn't help feeling a little jealous and possessive of her patient. Ah, but he wasn't just a patient anymore, was he? As much as they had both tried to resist their natural urges, true love had prevailed.

"_He's always good to me, good to him I'll try to be!"_

No. The secrets he'd shared with her were hers alone. All those other stupid loser nobodies could spend the rest of their careers sharpening pencils for all she cared. They'd ceased to have any significance to her.

A blissfully dopey smile stole over her flushed features as she pushed open the heavy door to the therapy room, beholding with a happy sigh the pale-pink walls and the battered old leather couch stretched out before the ancient armchair. The room's ugly plainness no longer registered for her; it seemed instead a hallowed and sacred place, filled to the brim with delirious memories of the months that had changed her life utterly.

_"He's not a rebel, no-no-no, he's not a rebel, no-no-no, to meeee…"_

Her soft voice echoed against the bare walls as she shut the door with a click and went to settle herself in the armchair. Of course, that was just a formality now, but it was necessary to keep up appearances. The other bozos at this joint hadn't seen in her Angel what she had and would never understand.

As she sat down, a gentle ache tingled in her buttocks and though she was alone in the room, she felt her cheeks brighten.

This little reminder of their last encounter had been teasing her constantly since it had happened. She'd been stunned and thrilled when she'd looked in the mirror that evening, twisting her head over her shoulder, to see the vivid blue and purple bruises spattered across her bottom. By now they'd faded to a sickly yellowish-grey and she was already mourning their loss. How utterly lovely it had been to be marked by him. To see as she showered in the morning, or feel every time she sat down or brushed against something, the evidence of his test of her, and how well she'd proven herself.

The door clanged open and she started, sat up straight and lifted a suddenly self-conscious hand to her hair as the guards – she could never remember their names these days – brought in the light of her life.

He winked at her as they led him to the couch, his arms shackled in front of him (still? She'd been sitting in this room with him unchained for _months_ and nothing had happened, why oh why couldn't they _see_ what she saw…) and she quickly ducked her head to hide the blush.

"Afternoon, Dr. Quinzel," one of the guards said as they turned towards the door and she looked up, blinking. Had he always had that goatee? She just wasn't sure. Never mind.

The door clicked shut behind them and she felt that curious sensation overcome her – a sensation very much like that day after cheerleading practice when she'd known Mickey was about to ask her out and she'd felt that intoxicating combination of anticipation, shyness and excitement – except this was far more intensified.

She could feel his eyes on her as she stared down fixedly at her notebook; knew he was smiling – knew her shyness would boost his confidence, make him feel a little cocky, and was glad for it – and ducked her head a little lower, unable to stop herself grinning.

He chuckled and when he spoke his voice was soft: "Why don't you come and sit by me, Harley?"

She didn't need any further encouragement, but was out of her chair in a flash and settling herself down beside him, finally lifting her eyes to his.

God, was it possible he'd got even more beautiful since she'd last seen him? But how, in this dreary place, could he prevail so magnificently? It was positively miraculous. That beautiful, long, lean face with its glorious, strong nose, those sparkling purple eyes and that incredible, breath-taking smile – oh! Every time she saw it, it seemed to have grown more vivid, more tender – indeed, his very smile seemed to have grown more joyous!

Even though he was locked up, day in and day out, in a tiny cell with barely any stimulation to temper his brilliant mind! It was inspiring – _awe-_inspiring – to witness.

"And how is my little Doctor today?" He asked her gently and she beamed.

"All the better for having seen you now, my darling." She breathed and he chuckled and lifted a hand to place over hers. The feverish warmth of his hand sent a pleasurable shiver through her body and she wiggled closer to him, still staring up into his eyes adoringly. Now that they'd locked gazes, she couldn't seem to tear hers away. His eyes were just so beautiful, and shining, and deep and intelligent and sensitive and –

"And how did our little bout of alternative therapy work out for you?" His silky voice interrupted her chain of thought and she blinked rapidly before realising what he was talking about, blushing deeply again and shucking one shoulder.

"Uh, well," she began, struggling to talk around her suddenly beaming smile, "I think it, uh, did me some good."

His other arm was suddenly around her shoulders and he was tugging her close, grinning down into her face in that delightfully wicked way of his. "Helped loosen that do of yours, cupcake?", and his fingertips were tugging gently at her bun and she swooned.

"It – it made me feel so – free!", she confessed and wondered at it. She supposed to an outsider, the whole exchange may have seemed very brutal and cruel, but it hadn't felt like that, to her. Not at all. "It felt like you – like you created this wonderful – enclosure around me. And I could do whatever I wanted because I was safe inside it." She paused for a moment and chewed her lip. "Does that make sense?"

His smile was very wide and he stroked the crown of her head tenderly. "Indeed, it does, baby."

She smiled happily again and settled into the crook of his arm. She was finding it a little hard to fully unwrap in her mind, but of course he would understand.

"It didn't frighten you away from me?" He purred, bending his head so that his lips skimmed her hair. She shut her eyes and leant into him.

Frighten her? Of course she had been frightened. But that was part of the whole wondrousness of it. To love someone like the Joker, you had to be strong – stronger than anyone else could be. A soul, as torn and tormented as this, as battered and abused having so long learned to turn violently from all kinship and affection, that had been taught to lash out at society to defend itself – such a soul needed the most love of all. Yes, she'd been frightened, but it had only strengthened her resolve. Only made her see, all the more, how badly he needed her. Only bound her ever more to him.

She turned her face into his chest, breathed in the smell of him deeply, feeling the way his heart pounded rapidly against his ribcage and marvelling in that all too tangible proof of life. His heart, his, beating blood through his body, keeping him alive. It was almost too beautiful to bear.

"It frightened me straight to you." She said fervently and clung to him tighter. Both his arms were around her as well, his grip strong and hard and she thought she had never felt so protected in all her life, enclosed in that embrace, with the sound of his heartbeat hammering against her ear.

She shifted, looked up at him and lifted a hand to cup his cheek. "I understand, my love. I understand how much you need someone to love all of you, and I do." He'd turned his head, began playfully biting and sucking at her fingers and she gasped as her nerves tingled in response. "I love that you don't play by the rules. I love that you trust me to understand."

He growled a little and a thrill tipped through her stomach. Her sweet angel had his dark side and it made him all the more perfect. Who could blame him, after all he'd been through? All the world's greatest rebels were misunderstood. Others only saw their violence and cruelty, their disregard for the rules. Not everyone could see what it was they hid inside. Their torment and tenderness. Just like her Puddin'. And he was the biggest rebel of them all.

"I think I do need the discipline too", she breathed and his eyes glittered down at her.

"Do you?" His voice was sharply interested, his breath hot as it moved against her wrist.

"Yes, I mean, I never really had any before. It just feels so nice to – to have something to work with." She wasn't sure how else to say it. He had no rules, but somehow he made order of her life. He grinned and bit down hard into her wrist so that she gasped.

"I only did it for your own good, baby." He murmured into her flesh. "Only because you need it."

She remembered that day, how twitchy he'd been and how hard he'd gotten as he'd tested her. She'd realised it then. It may have been for her own good, but that wasn't all it was for.

"Whatever you say, Daddy." She replied out loud in a deliberately disingenuous voice and he froze suddenly in his nibbling and his eyes rolled onto hers, sharp and savage and just slightly impressed. He liked that she got it, too.

Suddenly his mouth was on hers and she lost herself in its commanding warmth, letting herself give in fully to the magic of being enveloped by him, their tongues entwining, their mouths pressing – soft, then rough. He permitted her to respond briefly, then grasped her hard at the base of her skull and held her head still, forced her to take the kiss and she felt a delirious groan thrum in her throat as she submitted.

She'd been singing under her breath in the staff kitchen earlier that day, swaying her hips as she waited for the kettle to boil:

_"My folks were always puttin' him down – they said he came from the wrong side of town. They told me he was bad – but I knew he was sad! That's why I fell for the leader of the pack!"_

"How lovely it is to hear you in good spirits again, Harley." Joan's voice had broken her ruminations and she started and turned nervously, afraid suddenly of what she might have revealed in her song.

"Oh – hi Joan. Didn't hear ya come in." She hoped she didn't look as guilty as she felt.

A brief, uncomfortable silence had risen between the two women as Joan had rinsed her cup out in the sink and Harley had waited for the kettle. Was this really the same woman she used to look up to so much – had shared coffee with twice a day only a few months ago? Now she seemed like a stranger and Harley couldn't think of a thing to say to her.

"So. How are things going, Harley?" Joan asked carefully as the kettle began to slowly rattle.

Harley had hesitated, wondering what she could possibly say to do the last few months justice – without betraying them.

"I met someone." She finally blurted and Joan's face had spread in a surprised and delighted smile.

"Harley! That's wonderful!" She'd exclaimed as the kettle had switched itself off. "I'm so happy to hear that. How long?"

"Urhm – few months," Harley hedged. She could've told Joan down to the minute. She leant back against the cupboards and winced a little at the twinge in her still slightly sore bottom.

Joan had picked up the kettle and poured steaming water into both their mugs. "Where does he work?"

"Uh – he has his own business." Harley's voice sounded squeaky in her ears. She was rapidly beginning to wish she hadn't said anything.

"Harley, I'm so happy to hear that." Joan stirred sugar into her coffee. "I was beginning to worry about you a little, you know." She darted Harley a look of slightly motherly rebuke.

"You – you were?" Harley had picked up her mug, not registering the discomfort of the fresh heat against her palms.

"Yes," Joan dropped her spoon into the sink, where it clattered. "You seemed to be getting so wrapped up in your work here and with – with the Joker." Joan couldn't help but grimace at the name and Harley had felt sudden white-hot anger rush through her. "A girl your age shouldn't be too obsessed with her work – or she could end up losing whatever life she once had." Joan had leant back against the counter, gazing down to her mug, something slightly wistful crossing her features and Harley's fury had abated somewhat.

After all – Joan hadn't been one of those meanie doctors who'd been poking fun at her. Had she?

"My work's still important to me. He's a very special guy." Harley had piped up weakly. If Joan only knew – knew how close her work and her man really were.

The two women had stood opposite each other in the small kitchen, cupping mugs of instant coffee, for a moment and then Joan had let out a little sigh and smiled brightly.

"Well, I'd best get back into it." The strain had returned, the discomfort welling up once more between them. "I really am happy for you, Harley."

"Thank you." Harley had managed quietly as Joan exited, then started humming again.

"_I met him at the candy store, he turned around and smiled at me – you get the picture?"_

As her Puddin' pulled away from her, she realised she'd been lowered to the couch, that his body was pressing down against hers and she moaned and wiggled against him. He was grinning down at her wickedly and she couldn't help but smile back in shared mischief, though she didn't know precisely what was going through his mind. Whatever it was, she was sure she would like it. He'd awakened something in her; that was certain – something that she'd had no idea was slumbering so soundly beneath her façade of respectability and conformity.

"And when you got home that night – did you do what I told you?" He whispered and his voice snaked through the short distance between them, tickling her lips.

Colour bloomed up through her cheeks, but she did not take her eyes away from him. "Actually, I didn't make it home," she confessed and his brows shot up. Yes, so far she'd liked everything he'd had for her – sex had so often become simply a tool with which she gained an objective that the chemistry between them was simply exhilarating.

"How far did you get?" He bent closer, and there was a lascivious note in his voice and she wiggled beneath it, feeling suddenly gloriously wanton and undone.

"Maybe a half-hour after our session," she breathed back, her eyeballs beginning to prickle from the need to blink and he began to chuckle. She felt snared in his gaze, held there whether she resisted or not.

"And then?" He prompted.

She swallowed. This was so different to bouncing up and down on top of some jock or old geezer, cupping her breasts and screaming about how she was gonna come. She'd thought she knew liberation in the bedroom; but she'd been as trapped by the desires of others as everything else in her life. This was about what she wanted. This was _real_.

It was embarrassing – the memory of _performing_ for him had hovered in the back of her mind constantly since it happened, making her flush or squirm at unexpected moments – but it was delicious as well. Delicious and _good_, in a way she hadn't known things could be.

"That night as well," she continued in a small voice, still held tight in his gaze, torn between needing to look away and wanting to drown in it, "and the next morning. And – and just like that, until now."

He bent even closer; his nose brushed against hers. "Is that _all_?" He demanded gently and she squirmed.

"Uh – maybe – once or twice at lunch, too."

He sat back, grinning at her and she wrestled with all the confused sensations running through her. Delirious wantonness mingled with vague discomfort – the sense of being so raw and exposed before him – and wanting it. Needing it, even.

"Tell me what you thought of me," he commanded her and sat up further, settling in an upright position between her legs. "Tell me everything, Harley-baby." His hand began to gently push up her skirt and she felt something clench in her loins.

"I, uh" she fumbled over the words and he grinned teasingly and stroked his hand along her inner thigh before dropping his gaze downwards. Now that she was no longer lost in his eyes, she could close her own and things suddenly got much easier. "I – I thought of you – like you said. I thought of you – strong. And, uh – po –powerful." She'd thought of him with a hand fisted in her hair, shoving her face down against the ground and fucking her with swift, rough strokes. She tried to say that, but found the words refused to move from her mind to her mouth. "I thought of you – um – using me – oh!" His hand had brushed over her groin – she was wearing panties again that day. He seemed to like them and she wanted him to like them. His touch was electric and for the first time that session she became aware of how aroused she was.

"Using you?" His voice drifted through her self-imposed darkness, slightly mocking. "What do you mean by that, Harley?"

Even the way he said her name seemed like possession. With her eyes shut, it was easy to thrust upwards, to stroke her own hands up over her abdomen, lightly skim over her breasts, revel in his sly chuckle at the sight of it. His fingertips played softy over the seat of her panties, seeming almost to not be there. She wanted to open her eyes and look at him, but she was afraid.

"Using me – " she faltered, " – using me for whatever you needed. To let it out, whatever it is you need to let out. To be – like, uh- like a canvas. For you." Her cheeks burned. Did that sound silly? Now she didn't dare open her eyes in case he was laughing at her.

But then his fingertips were hooking over the top of her panties and tugging them down and she inhaled sharply with excitement, lifting her hips to help as he rolled them partway down her thighs. The cool air felt wonderful on her bare flesh and she could feel how wet she was.

"A canvas," his voice repeated with dark amusement. "For me. I like that, Harley. I like that a lot."

She brimmed with happiness. It was such a beautiful image, wasn't it? He needed something like that, someone who could simply be _there_, to be the object upon which he could fix and focus his rage and vent his frustration. And she could be that. She knew she could. Because only she knew the full story. Only she knew what lay beneath it. Only she got the joke.

Then suddenly she felt his lips press against her abdomen and couldn't help the sudden moan, the up-thrust of her hips. He tsked.

"Now, now, Punkin," his breath tickled her groin and she shuddered and her hand was suddenly clutching at his hair. Even the sensuality of that, of feeling those beautiful green locks coil and snake around her fingers, was almost enough to undo her.

"Please," she moaned, "Oh, please…"

"What?" His whisper was dark.

"Please – you know."

"I want to hear you say it, Harley."

She whimpered, but opened her mouth.

"And look at me when you do."

Her mouth snapped shut again and she squirmed on the couch, one hand gripping his hair, the other clawing at the leather of the couch, her groin thrust upwards to where she thought his mouth might be.

"Please," she entreated him once more.

"Look at me Harley." As softly commanding as he said it, there was a note of play buried deep within the words and she knew he was loving this.

It gave her the strength to open her eyes and look down to him.

He was smiling at her, lips pressed shut and eyelids lowered, a smirk that struck through to her innermost core and thrilled her. He was inches from the place between her thighs that burned for him; a sensation that intensified when she grasped his proximity, how close he was to bringing her yet more bliss with that perfect, smiling mouth.

"Please," she gasped, "please lick me."

He held her eyes for a moment, then playfully darted his tongue out and licked his lips. She sucked in a great breath and waited, teetering at the brink of desperation. Without breaking their gaze, he slowly, slowly lowered his head then pressed a soft, hot kiss on her groin, just centimetres – _centimetres _– above her clit.

Her whole body shook at the feeling.

Then abruptly, he sat back up, running a hand back to smooth his hair after her grip had tousled it.

"Not today, Harley." He said calmly. "I believe we're out of time."

She could only gape at him, in disbelieving frustration, the full horror of denial flooding her yearning body.

He broke suddenly into delighted peals of laughter at the look on her face and she struggled to hitch her panties back up, cheeks flooding red-hot and hastily stumbling back to her armchair as the clock did, indeed, click over to four.

After the session, she ran straight to the bathrooms and locked herself in a stall and imagined him there, watching and laughing at her as she rubbed herself to oblivion.

--

_Hi to all my new readers who've joined us in the wake of The Dark Knight. It's great to have you onboard, and even more wonderful to hear from you who are enjoying this story!_

_At the moment I am not writing any new fanfiction because it will just get lost in the tide of new fic inspired by the film. However, I'm also not reading most of the new fanfiction, as I have my own very definite ideas on the sorts of fic I want to write in the future and I don't want those swayed or influenced by what other people are producing in the frenzy._

_I'd really love it if you checked out some of my other JokerxHarley fiction and left a review. Just see my profile. Note – Compare/Contrast is very lonely. I've been a fan for eleven years and also run two websites – www. jokerxharley . com and www. harley-quinn. com (just remove the spaces)_

_I'd love to hear your thoughts. My Joker is not the Joker of the film, not really – he's the Joker of the comics, my own favourite Joker. But if the movie brought you here, chances are you'll love this Mistah J too. _

_Also, it seems I led all of you astray in my last chapter, many people thinking this would be the last chapter of the story. _

_First of all, please note the last chapter was twenty-eight and this is twenty-nine. The chapter fanfiction dot net marks as 'one' was actually the prologue._

_Second, I should've said 'thirty-odd' chapters. After this one? There's actually three more chapters PLUS the epilogue to go. Lucky you, huh?_

Finally, for those asking – expect an update at the end of every week – Friday or Saturday. Add this story to your alerts so you don't even have to worry about checking!

Thank you for your continued support! It means more than ever now. Kisses.


	31. Session 107: The Joker

**THIRTY**

**Week Fifty-Five: **_**Session 107 - The Joker**_

For a long while, he hadn't been exactly sure what he would end up doing with Doctor Quinzel.

At first he'd speculated that he might send her out on a rather spectacular note, induce her to a murder-suicide. Perhaps one of her old Professors, or her Father or something poetic like that. Her Aunt, too, could work.

But when it became clear that she so hopelessly adored him, idolised him, in fact, he changed his mind. Seemed a waste of so much good work. And she was so much _fun_. She really could make him laugh.

And furthermore… well. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable to admit it, even to himself, but… she _did _understand him. Not completely. Only as far as her paltry little mind could allow. But she did. She'd really come around to seeing the world from his perspective. So she definitely had promise as an audience who might actually _get it._ And that made him feel all warm inside.

He supposed, when you got right down to brass tacks, he didn't altogether _mind_ Doctor Quinzel. Harley. His little Harleykins.

And she _was_ his. She belonged to him utterly. She'd told him so herself! Ha ha ha ha!

Furthermore, she was his Doctor at Arkham. And if she was entirely on his side, well - that could prove to be more than a little beneficial for him.

All the rest of it didn't matter. He could enjoy her company, relish the sensation of devouring her through kisses, revel in the sound of her outpourings of love because _really_ all he wanted was her to make his life more pleasant. The rest of it was secondary. Completely.

Yes, it all worked out very well. She could help him and he could enjoy unravelling her. She could pull strings and he could spend a couple of hours a week being adored and petted by a pretty blonde.

Unbuttoning her restraint was proving to be more enjoyable than he'd expected. As a rule, Joker didn't bother over much with sex. Such a superficial and fleeting sensation, a simplistic and base way to achieve a certain feeling. But he knew other ways to find dizzying euphoria and generally preferred them.

And yet, pushing back Doctor Quinzel's boundaries gave him a few tasty hours of reflection when their sessions were over.

He had been slightly perturbed when he found himself having to genuinely make a decision between screwing her or keeping her waiting. In the end he'd decided she'd be far easier to control if she was still gagging for it He could hold off, indefinitely, of course. No problem. At all.

Absolutely. No, really.

_Anyway_, it was all a part of it - her cultivated lust and teased out pleasure were no doubt contributing to her precarious state of sanity. It was a necessary element of the game.

But it was done, he reminded himself. His work was done. Perhaps a little further polishing, but on the whole she was complete, and what a gorgeous piece of work she was.

So now that he'd finished up here, perhaps it was time to once more turn his thoughts upon fair Gotham…

She could barely wait for the guards to leave before throwing herself beside him and flinging her arms around his neck, peppering his face with tender kisses.

"It's getting harder and harder to leave you," she confessed to him sorrowfully and he chuckled and petted her hair.

"It's the price we have to pay, sweet Harley," he murmured and gave her a little kiss, sliding a hand around her waist. "The world wouldn't understand what we share."

He hoped she wasn't going to dwell on this subject for too long. He had the urge to talk about some of his past exploits, reminisce over his genius and he knew Harley would be an admiring audience. It had become a funny sort of therapy; he extolling the brilliance of his crimes while she listened in awe and asked entranced questions about little details. He would have to quickly stir the conversation in that direction soon.

"It's not fair," she whined, clinging to his pyjama top with her little hands. "Being forced to carry out this pretence when really I want to shout from the rooftops. I'm happy now, maybe for the first time in my life, but how can my happiness be complete when society stands between us?"

Above her head he rolled his eyes and bit back an exasperated sigh. This wasn't half as interesting as he was! She definitely needed a little further polishing.

"But Harley, what would I do without you here to look out for my needs and _listen to me_?" he emphasised, taking up her hands in both of his and squeezing them firmly. She sighed, her face all distressed frustration and nodded.

"I know you're right, Puddin', I know. With me treating you at least we can be assured you're being taken care of in here. But I only get to see you twice a week - for an hour! Have you got any idea how agonising that is?" She implored him tearfully, squeezing his hands back.

"Well, of course I do," he said falsely, then perked up a little as he considered what she'd said. "But of course I also want to hear how you feel about it," he finished pointedly, hoping she would take the hint.

Of course she did. "Being away from you is like being tortured, slowly, in the most cruel and horrible ways," she enthused, pushing closer to him and gazing up into his face in an agony of longing. "I think about you every second of every day. I have difficulty thinking of anything else. I forget to eat, I can't sleep. When I do sleep, I dream of you," ooh, this wasn't so bad, he was enjoying this. "When I wake up, you're the first thing on my mind - I roll over in bed sometimes expecting to find you there, to be able to touch you and when I don't, it _hurts_, Puddin'. It hurts like a knife in my heart. Every day I enter the Asylum I'm aware that you're in here, in your cell - all alone and so near to me and yet still so out of reach! I can't do anything except sit at my desk and read about you until I can't stand it anymore and then I just wander the corridors wondering if it's always going to be like this - " she paused and shook her head in disbelief before snapping her eyes up onto his face, " - and I don't think I could take that. I put off leaving as long as I can and then when my car is finally pulling out of the driveway, I feel - hollow." She sniffed and stared down into her lap with childish contemplation. "Empty." She lifted her eyes up to his once more. "You're the only thing that seems to be a good enough reason for anything."

The Joker was basking; a sense of immense gratification making him feel very tender towards the silly girl. It really was so lovely to be appreciated properly for who and what he was.

"There, there," he put his arms around her and urged her onto his knee. She snuggled up to him contentedly, pressing small, warm kisses across his neck and jaw. "Until the world realises its mistake, this is how things must be."

She sat up straight suddenly and wiggled petulantly. "But when will that _be_?" She cried. "Don't you realise how hard it is to keep on pretending - to keep on acting like I'm one of _them_ when now I'm finally alive and itching to break free?"

"All things in their time, Harleykins," he whispered quickly, just a little note of danger in his voice.

She didn't heed it, instead leaping to her feet and beginning to storm around the room.

"I can't stand it anymore!" she complained. "It's unnatural! "

He felt - not nervous. Just a little - perturbed. "What are you suggesting exactly, Harley?" He queried her from the couch, watching as she paced frantically up and down the room.

She turned to him, her face contorted, eyes wild. "I feel physically ill when I'm separated from you!" She declared and his cock twitched. She did so know the best ways to massage his ego. "I can't do anything else. Can't breathe, think, eat, sleep, _anything._"

"Well, you're here now, Pumpkin Pie," He crooned. "So why worry? Come here and let Daddy kiss you."

She always went a little silly when he used that word, 'Daddy'. Now her eyes half-shut and she practically purred as she slunk back over and eased down beside him.

"I can't take it anymore Daddy." She said, sliding a hand up around his neck, and he couldn't deny he liked it when she called him that. "I can't stand seeing you in here like a caged animal. It's a crime against nature. And I don't think I can keep on playing the game their way. I have to find a way to make them understand they're wrong about you. Maybe -" She suddenly hesitated and tuned hopeful blue eyes up to his. "Maybe I should tell Doctor Arkham about us."

Rage flooded him like a volcanic eruption, pouring through him so fierce that he leapt up and threw her onto the floor.

"What?" He roared and she gagged and looked at him in terror as he straddled her body and gripped her throat in both hands. "You want to ruin _everything_?" He hissed furiously. "All my hard work? All the effort I've gone to? Is that how little you think of me?"

He lifted a hand and belted her with the back of it, her neck snapping to the side. How could the little hussy be so interminably _stupid_?

She was choking between her sobs, rolling her eyes up desperately and somehow, through the blinding haze of his rage, he thought perhaps this would be too terribly boring a way for it to end, and a waste of some really good work. After all this time, for it to end so tritely…

So although his hands protested, having loved the feeling of her crushing throat within them, he released her and sat back.

"I guess you just don't really love me at all." He said unkindly and she scrambled onto her knees, sputtering and pawing at him frantically.

"I do… I d - gak - do!" She sputtered. "I'm so sorry, Puddin'! I am, I truly am! I didn't meant to upset you, or hurt you - please, please forgive me."

"I can't believe you would be so inconsiderate of me, Harley." He said in a rather bitter tone of voice. "All the things I've shared with you. The trust I've placed In you. And now you want to betray it. I don't know what to say."

And the little wretch started to cry _again_. Really, she could be very tiresome with all these tears. "I didn't - muh-mean to - uh-upset you Puh-Puddin'!" She exclaimed between sobs. "I love you. I won't do anything you don't want me to do."

Privately, he marvelled. He'd just strangled her and hit her and she was pleading his forgiveness! Of course, it had been all her fault, coming out with that ridiculous suggestion, but so many other women would be a lot more unreasonable about it and say that he had crossed a line or some such. But Harley - bless her sweet little heart - understood straight away that she was to blame!

He suddenly felt very tender towards her.

"I forgive you, Baby." He said generously and she blinked at him, hardly daring to believe it.

"Really?" She asked him, her face transfixed with hope.

He gave her his most winning smile, then drew her into his embrace, right there on the cold hard floor of the therapy room. "How could I not?" He crooned into her hair as she hugged him gratefully tight. "But Harley, baby, you have to understand that I need you here, on my side - here where you can ensure that I'm being properly taken care of, as you said yourself. They'd never understand Harley, not ever and if you told them they'd never let you see me again."

He pondered how distorted her reality was becoming, that she could possibly ever consider it would be any other way if she was stupid enough to blab. It was the right thing to point out to her, however, for she gave a little whimper and clung to him.

"I couldn't bear to lose you." She whispered fiercely into his chest, and he noted with some irritation her mascara was staining his pyjama top. That was the last thing he needed to be noticed… still…

"I'd die," she said and squeezed him tighter. "Especially if it was my fault. I love you, Puddin'. I really, really do. More than anything."

He grinned to himself, stroked her hair.

"Do you really, Cupcake?" and felt the motion of her head nodding against him.

"Uh-huh."

"Would you prove it to me?"

She sat back, and wiped at her face, gazing at him with absolute earnestness.

"Any way you need me to." She promised and he smiled at her, gazed straight into her silly wet blue eyes.

"You hate to see me in here, being strangled by the system - like a caged animal?"

She nodded fervently and his smirk became smug.

"I want you to work late tonight. And then I want you to let me out."

Her eyes widened and she shifted nervously. He quickly moved over to her, drew her onto his lap and cradled her there, stroking her hair. It didn't take long for her eyes to glaze over and for to rest her head against his shoulder.

"This environment is so stifling." He murmured into her hair. "It's crushing me. You've done such good work with me, but I need to put it into practice on the outside. Won't you help me, my sweet Harleykins?"

She gazed at him with a revolting sort of trust, her eyes wide, desperate to please.

"Of course I will, my angel. I'm sorry I didn't think of it sooner." She vowed and he laughed, bent his head, and kissed her warmly.

_--_

_Thank you once again to all my loyal readers and all of the new ones. Only a couple of chapters left to go now! Thanks to all of you for reading and supporting me!_


	32. Session 114: Dr Harleen Quinzel

Harley sighed and lifted her pen to her notebook to write out an agenda for today's session

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE**

_**Week Fifty-Eight: Session 114 – Doctor Harleen Quinzel**_

Harley sighed and lifted her pen to her notebook to write out an agenda for the day's session.

The nib pressed against the cream page, hovering there as she collected her thoughts. A black splotch steadily grew beneath the nib, spreading out in a dark stain like blood blossoming in water.

After a long moment, her hand began to move. The pen traced out in a smooth line from its splattered beginning, curving and looping in pace with her considerations. A little smile flitted upon her face as she watched her thoughts take shape.

_His _smile, clumsily rendered, in a cartoonish approximation of his face, lightly curling hair tumbling over his forehead in the way that most tugged her heartstrings. If only she had the skill to convey the sparkle in his eyes, the way they seemed so often to wink at her, sharing a joke only the two of them understood. Her smile grew as her gaze misted. Their own, private joke.

His arms wrapped around a petite cartoonish woman with hearts for eyes, her pulled back hair being released by one of his hands, one leg lifted coquettishly off the non-existent floor, her high heel dangling.

Above their heads, Harley drew a heart and punctured it with a feathered arrow. Within the heart she traced out their initials:

_HQ_

_4_

_J_

The nib of her pen came to a rest on the page, just outside the heart, leaving a small streaking smudge. Harley sighed again, filled with a curious mixture of longing and joy.

She understood why people said love was agony, now. Her other relationships had always been so simply pleasurable, straightforward and uncomplicated. The pain of a couple of breakups had seemed like the worst thing in the world at the time, but it wasn't half of what she experienced now, even as her heart swelled with elation.

She leaned back into the leather of the couch, letting her notebook and pen slide from her lap to the floor, the sterling silver pen clattering as it made impact with the stone. Its nib broke, but she didn't notice; didn't have a second thought for the engraved graduation gift. Given to her by friends who's numbers she had forgotten now, because her aunt would never have thought of such a thing.

If she stilled herself and breathed in deeply, she swore she could smell him. Just a thread, entwined in the leather, of his unique musk beneath the scent of cheap shampoo and soap. She waited to catch the scent again, then gulped it down greedily. It was him, she was sure of it. She couldn't mistake it. She knew it too well.

Every session since he'd been gone, she'd come here, to their room. To lie on the couch and watch the hour tick from three until four and imagine what might have transpired had he been there with her. The push and press of their bodies together, the delirious kissing of their lips. His hand in her hair, or maybe on her throat, leaving her with a necklace she could wear for days, like a secret brand beneath her scarves.

Something twitched in her loins and she wiggled on the couch, a soft moan escaping her throat.

This was why her love was agony, of course. As perfectly complete as he made her feel, not having him in close proximity was nothing less than torture. It had been bad enough the last couple of months, only being able to see him twice a week in their sessions, perhaps a few exchanged glances through the walls of his cell if she found an excuse to enter that ward – but knowing that he was out there, somewhere in that huge city, all alone…

… He could be anywhere. Anywhere at all.

All alone.

Doubtless he'd be confused and frustrated, suddenly struggling with the assault of sensation that was the world outside the Asylum.

Her forehead creased in pain and she hunched a little, hissing out through her teeth. She was getting sick without him. She kept on forgetting to eat and her hair seemed to constantly fall from its arrangement. She felt listless, moved as if she were in a waking dream – or a nightmare – wondering when it would end. When she would be with him again, his presence like an electric current, shocking her into life.

Arkham and Joan had feared for her safety, of course. She had a police escort keeping watch over her apartment night and day. She had smiled and thanked them while inwardly she had sneered. Like a couple of stupid cops could stop him doing absolutely anything he wanted!

And she'd wanted him to. Wanted him to show them. Wanted him to turn up on her doorstep, or even better – _inside_ her apartment, waiting for her when she got home, smiling at her in that wonderful way of his. No longer in asylum blues, but in his own vivid purples, greens and oranges. How splendid he would look, and how much she would enjoy slowly stripping him of each garment.

They would spend the night entwined, learning every inch of each other's flesh, his white skin gleaming in the light that filtered in through her window, making him look like a god bestowing some delirious favour upon her. They would giggle over whispered jokes and he would talk to her in endless delightful reams about his visions while she listened and wondered.

Harley rolled onto her side and curled up, her knees drawing up to her chest. But that hadn't happened. Three weeks, and no word. Every night she had arrived home with baited breath, her heart performing a skittering jump in her bosom as she unlocked her door only to find nothing. Not even a sign he might have been there.

Of course, he was doing it for her safety. They couldn't risk anyone finding out about them. Really, it was very considerate of him and what was most absolutely necessary for them. As much as it hurt, tore her apart inside, the best thing for them. After all, if they found out – she'd forever be separated from him. She shuddered at the thought, feeling bile rise to her throat. No, no, no. They could never, ever do that to them. She wouldn't let them. She _wouldn't_. Tears of stubborn resistance lurked in the corners of her eyes. No. He was hers, they belonged together, and nothing was ever going to keep them apart. Somehow, they'd find a way.

Dr. Andrews had commiserated. So sorry her treatment of Joker seemed to have not been such a success after all, the smug creep had said. But she shouldn't take it personally, he'd been incorrigible for many years.

The sort of remark that would've had her bawling in the past. But then she'd just stared at him blankly, her lower lip slightly slack, trying to figure out how she was supposed to feel, if the desire to kick Dr. Andrews in his paunchy gut was really something she should suppress.

Andrews had paused uncertainly for a moment at her lack of reaction, then fumbled and hurried away.

She didn't think anyone had really noticed she spent their sessions – what would've been their sessions – sequestered in that room. But she couldn't honestly bring herself to much care if they had. Where else could she be, but lying on that couch, pouring over the delirious memories of their time together while worrying about her vulnerable darling, alone and misunderstood in the big city.

Somehow, they'd find a way. Blissful yearning welled in her as she imagined herself by his side, his rock and foundation upon which he could rest his weary head when the burdens of the world exhausted him. The silent strut who would bear him up when he was drained from the fire of creation, who would be there to laugh when the rest of the world wanted only to disparage, to delight when the world cried, unable to acknowledge the gift of his being amongst them.

Maybe… maybe she could even be his muse. She grew a little giddy at the thought, sucking a little on the tip of her thumb. Ooh, what an honour it would be to inspire his work – for him to have wrought something in her name! Could she dare imagine it?

But how? How would she be such a thing? He would have to guide her – he was the artist after all. He would best see what most wonderful creation to shape her into.

A little smile quirked her mouth again and she wiggled against the leather, hearing it whisper against her clothes. Yes, the future stretched out gloriously before her, her and her Puddin' joined together in an explosion of laughter and chaos, twirling together in an unending tango of delight. Two of a kind, as he'd said so often. The two of them. Together, as one.

If only she could see a way to overcoming their current obstacles.

She frowned again, face contorting in distress. No matter what he said, the time was coming closer that they had to be together. Had to. She just couldn't live without him anymore.

And especially not since the message he'd sent her.

Her grimace spread quickly into a beaming smile at that thought. He may not have come to visit her, or phoned her or even written her a note – but he'd sent his own very special sort of message.

She'd thought she'd have a heart-attack when she'd read the newspaper that day, the front headline blaring at her:

_JOKER'S LATEST VICTIM: GCU PROFESSOR SLAIN._

Professor Graham, lately the head of the psychology department of Gotham University, had been found in his office, stretched out on his desk with a frozen smile upon his face. But he had not died from the Smilex.

Instead he had asphyxiated on a novelty condom – one covered with the star-spangled banner – filled with red and black heart-shaped glitter. A sparkly party hat had been perched neatly on his crotch.

The post-mortem examination had revealed his stomach to be filled with scraps of paper he had ingested. From what could be deciphered, it was the remains of a psychology thesis.

She didn't need to be told whose it was.

She moaned a little and rolled over onto her back, running a trembling hand down the length of her torso, her skin tingling beneath her blouse.

Professor Graham, the man she'd screwed for her Highest Honours. The one who could reveal her.

Not anymore.

What more meaningful message could he have sent? Every time she thought of it, she wanted to burst from happiness. Of course he couldn't risk coming to her, but to do such a thing – to take such a decisive action on her behalf – it was beyond romantic.

Her hand slowly crept below the waist of her skirt, slipping down beneath her panties, softly stroking herself.

She only wished she could've been there to see it.

She wondered if Graham had cried and pleaded. Her heart sped up and she tittered with vicious glee. She _hoped_ so. He'd always smelled like fish. She _hated_ fish.

The tingling in her loins grew as she teased herself, her hips thrusting forward a little on the couch. If only she'd been there… imagine, sharing such a thing with him. Such incredible intimacy as he had squeezed the life from the hapless professor, she close by and watching, giggling. And afterwards – oh, it was too delicious to think of. How she wanted to see him work. And that he'd thought of her, gone to protect her like that, ensure that no one would ever find out – oh _God_, he was so amazing.

When would she see him again?

A sudden commotion in the corridor beyond jolted her rudely from her fantasies. She sat bolt upright, legs akimbo and hair disarrayed, horrified at the thought someone might've entered and found her in such a revealing position.

But the door remained shut and beyond it she could hear an arrangement of hurried footsteps stopping and starting, passing by or skidding on the polished floor; distant shouts that rose as they drew nearer, the frantic sounds of trolleys being wheeled and door slamming.

Heart pounding, she moved quickly to the door, hastily straightening her clothing before peeking outside.

Two nurses and a guard were hurrying past, one of the nurses readying a syringe. She caught sight of Harley's enquiring face peering around the door and exclaimed:

"Doctor Quinzel, we've been looking for you! GCPD have just delivered the Joker – Batman caught him barely an hour ago. You'd better come quickly!"

Back. He was back. Under the same roof again. Close by. She could see him. Be near him. Touch him, smell him, taste him. Her heart caught in her throat and she swayed, suddenly dizzy, reaching out for the wall to steady herself.

The nurse noticed and stopped, hurrying over to Harley to put an arm around her.

"Don't worry, he's restrained. He's already been sedated, but by a new kid who didn't realise the usual doses don't really work on him. Come on, we've got to get him to the medical ward quickly."

Medical ward?

Those two words broke through her swoon. Medical ward.

If he needed the medical ward – he was hurt.

Suddenly, she broke into a run beneath the flickering neon lights of the asylum, shoving past the nurses and guard, heedless of the cry of indignant protest that followed her, her heels clattering against the tiled floor.

In the distance, the sound of his glorious laughter threaded through the air, drawing her to him as indefatigably as a comet to its star.


	33. Session 114: The Joker

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO**

_**Week Fifty-Eight: Session 114 – The Joker**_

He lay, half-strapped against a gurney, laughing hysterically as a nervous trio of nurses huddled near the door, afraid to get close to him. All three held syringes and the sight of the pointed little things raised like weapons next to their pointed little faces just made him laugh all the more.

Two guards with billy clubs approached him menacingly from the other direction, snarling at him in attempted intimidation. He snapped his gaze onto them and growled, baring his teeth, and they jumped back. The same routine they'd been following for the last thirty seconds.

Four hundred pounds of combined muscle and they were still waiting to be joined by their buddies before getting any closer. He let his head drop back against the gurney and laughed so hard his abdominals cramped.

He knew something was broken, but the combination of endorphins, adrenalin and even the sedative they'd managed to administer made him mindless to it. All things considered, Batsy had been rather gentle on him this time and he'd taken the opportunity to tease the Dork Knight about the ways in which their relationship was progressing. That was when something had been broken.

Now he was back in Arkham, having been rendered unconscious by old Guanoman, and whilst he accepted that fact, he figured a few last moments of fun were in order.

He levelled his gaze onto one of the nurses, a cute, curvy little thing who always wore her uniform too tight.

"Tell me you're on sponge bath duty tonight," he hissed and licked his lips. "I won't even mind being unconscious if you are."

She fled and he snickered.

One of the guards slammed his billy club against the wall and the other nurses jumped.

"Settle down now, clown!" The guard roared and he shrieked with laughter. "You're in for a whole world of pain if you don't start behaving."

The Joker stopped laughing and locked eyes with the guard. "Really? Is that a promise? _Your _ promise?", he said silkily and the guard hesitated, his eyes flickering about the room uncertainly.

The door burst open and five more guards bundled in, Doctor Arkham in their midst. Joker began to giggle again, knowing the fun was almost over for the night.

The guards circled him as Arkham snatched a syringe from one of the nurses and hovered behind him.

"Joker, I must kindly ask you to cooperate with us," Arkham said, his lips pursed together as he eyed the clown warily and Joker laughed. He was such a stiff! "I'd rather avoid any further mishaps this afternoon."

"For my sake or theirs, Doc?" he cried wildly and slammed a heel against the gurney, switching a mechanism that caused a blade to emerge from his shoe, kicking out at the nearest guard.

"We don't know what tricks he's got on him, Doc," one of the guards grumbled.

"Just pin him down so I can sedate him, Ross," Arkham snapped, careful to position himself well beyond Joker's reach.

The grand standoff was imminent.

Joker sat up straight as he could against the loosely fastened straps and glared at them all, hands running along his pockets, reassuring himself of the various toys within them, feeling for the tricks hidden within his sleeves. Already, new waves of adrenalin were overwhelming the sedative and he felt the straps begin to give. The guards were brandishing their clubs, readying themselves to pounce and he chortled and mused to himself he was going to ache tomorrow.

As one, the guards moved forward just as he snapped the straps, sitting upright with a snarling leer and then the scene was arrested by a cry:

"Stop!"

In shock, they all turned to the doorway where Doctor Quinzel – daffy, daffy Doctor Quinzel – his little Harleykins – stood, bosom heaving, hair disarrayed, silly glasses skewed on her face.

"Don't any of you dare lay a single hand on my patient," she commanded, stepping further into the room and glaring from guard to guard. "He has rights here and I will not permit any further obstruction to his therapy."

He heard himself begin to titter. Ooh, and here he thought she would give them away by shrieking hysterically and throwing herself tearfully upon him. Little Harley really was _full_ of surprises.

Arkham recovered first: "Doctor Quinzel, I understand your concerns, but the patient refuses to come quietly. He must be subdued."

Harley levelled a strange, penetrating stare onto the asylum head. "I should've been notified immediately," was all she said. Then she stepped towards him and held out her hand for the syringe.

He was somewhat enthralled, watching her. Her performance was unexpectedly convincing as she nodded to the guards to stand back, held the syringe up to the light and tapped on the barrel.

He wondered what she'd thought about his playtime with her old professor. Really, it had been an act of insurance – he knew murmurings of her seemingly successful treatment of him had begun spreading through the psychology world and it might've proven to be the catalyst for the old geezer to reveal some rather inconvenient information. No one in Gotham had any real professional integrity – apart from the Bat of course. It just wasn't that kind of burg.

But he rather thought she'd be flattered by it.

"Doctor Quinzel, I'm not sure this is a good idea – " Arkham began nervously as she moved towards him where he sat upright on the gurney, his muscles twitching with adrenalin shocks, endorphins making him delirious and the sight of his whacky Doctor playing the professional tickling his funny bone hard.

Harley ignored Arkham. The guards hovered uncertainly, legs astride and hands fisted, watching with grim apprehension as she drew closer to him. One had his hands slightly raised, outstretched as though he longed to jump on her and shove her out of the way. Not a one of them dared.

The room held a collective breath as she stopped beside the gurney, mere inches from his reach. They all expected him to launch himself upon her, to tear her apart in a fountain of blood and laughter until there was nothing left of her but scraps of blonde hair and her cheap little shoes.

He could do it. Of course he could. He'd even enjoy it.

He saw that her hands were shaking, her eyes flickering nervously, her lip trembling. She blinked her eyes rapidly as she looked him over, blinking away the sudden shine that was there. It was difficult for her, this pretence. It was only with exceptional effort she was restraining herself. He could feel the longing in her to touch him, to hold him close and stroke him. It was as tangible as salt on the air. He stuck his tongue out a little to taste her need and her desire.

Her eyes locked onto his, her gaze entreating. In the depth of those baby blues, he perceived all the torment his absence had brought her, saw it in the thinness of her hands and the strain that transfixed her face and rejoiced. She was his now, more surely than ever.

When she spoke, her voice was soft and coaxing but he heard the plea in it that the rest of them were oblivious to: "Please, Mistah Joker – the sedative will allow us to set the bone without causing you further discomfort."

Her eyes. Such delicious agony. They implored him. _Please understand_, they begged him, _please_.

Of course he understood. The silly little twit. He would've been furious with her if she'd played any other way.

So long as no one suspected and took his toy away.

He let himself relax visibly and lay back down against the gurney, the movement bringing with it the release of breath the room had been holding, sweeping softly over his cheeks.

"T'was beauty tamed the savage beast," he chuckled quietly and flinched a little as Harley smoothed hair away from his neck.

Her eyes were shining bright with tears as she readied the syringe and she swallowed hard as she brought it down to his neck. Tsk tsk. How much longer was she going to be able to fake it, he wondered idly as the prick of the needle punctured his flesh. How much longer before she gave them away…

Her lips were moving and he squinted through the haze that clouded his vision as the triple dose began to take effect.

_Forgive me_, she mouthed and he passed out with a smile on his face.


	34. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

It was eight months before she was caught periodically releasing him, stripped of her medical license and incarcerated in the asylum. She was caught by the guard Ethan, whose suspicions had been raised by something as simple as a smear of lipstick on the side of Joker's red mouth.

By then the damage was irreversible. Those further eight months of alternatively obsessing and idolising over The Joker while he was free, or being subjected to his careful manipulations and attentions whenever incarcerated had done their job perfectly.

Harleen Quinzel was stark-raving insane.

She was quietly committed, Doctor Arkham wanting to avoid the public scandal of this almighty blunder, and Doctor Joan Leland was assigned to her case. She considered going to the psychiatric board to have Doctor Arkham's actions scrutinised, but ultimately decided she could help Harleen more as her therapist.

Harleen was stripped of her belongings and assigned her own set of Arkham pajamas into which she changed happily. Her Aunt was notified, but her only acknowledgement of what had happened to her niece was to request that the keys to her apartment were mailed forward. After Harleen attacked and beat Doctor Andrews with a chair for an unrecorded remark, she was assigned to the Maximum Security Solitary Ward. Doctor Andrews suffered a head injury that prevented him from further practicing psychology.

Harleen sat in her barren cell and sang to the walls, adding her own melody to the asylum's symphony of sound. She did not seem to mind the abrupt change to her lifestyle but declared herself glad to have three square meals a day and a free gym and accommodation at her disposal and attributed it to her "Puddin'" taking care of her.

Initial tests found that Harleen's mental age had regressed to that of a twelve year old. When Doctor Leland entered the therapy room to find the formerly assured, well-presented young Doctor in girlish pigtails and a straitjacket wanting to know why everyone was "so cross at her - couldn't they take a joke?" she almost had the first breakdown of her career.

The former Doctor Quinzel displayed as much steadfast determination to resisting treatment as she had to everything she'd gone after in her life, dreamily declaring that her and her one true love would soon be reunited and show the world up for the ridiculous joke it really was.

Doctor Leland privately despaired, and blamed herself.

Three months after that, the earthquake came.

**oooo**

_Woo! DONE! Who can believe it?_

_I imagine that a great deal more happened in those eight months to further twist Harley's mind and regress her behaviour. Obviously, by the end of this story she's getting more immature and is beginning to be sucked into Joker's worldview, but she's not fully there yet. So, attribute to it those eight missing months mentioned here._

_A couple of notes on the things I've dreamed up for this…_

_To my mind, someone who had a truly strong support system around her would not be so easily twisted by The Joker. Even in my story 'Fan Mail' I made sure that everyone who wrote to him already seemed a little off-balance. Oh, I think if you gave him a couple of years, he'd have anyone wrapped around his little finger, but if Harley had come from a loving family and a busy social life, it would never have been so easy for him. It wasn't simply a matter of naivety and credulity - I don't believe it. She's not stupid. Look at how canny she was in the pursuit of her own goals._

_Harley wanted fame and glory. She yearns for respect. It stands to reason she therefore hungers for love. That's what made her easy pickings for him. She was so desperate to go after "love" as she perceived it, she did a lot of things she should not have, simply because they made her more vulnerable. She didn't study properly, which meant she wasn't properly 'up' on all the psychology stuff (and I theorise she didn't study properly because she was too busy socialising and didn't want to lose friends, i.e.: "love"), and she went straight after an extremely complex psychopath despite having no experience, which meant she was swiftly blindsided by his charm. _

_I speculated all of this came about because Harley didn't have a great family life - not an abusive one, you understand, just a neglectful one. Her Parent/child dynamics with Joker further enforce this for me, particularly the 'Daddy' stuff. She has a deep need for attention and love which manifested itself in her goals and desires. _

_Then she became so consumed with her work, with striving for her goal of becoming famous and respected, it stood to reason she would gradually fall out of touch with her friends, leaving her without a network of support to fall back on. I envision Harley as having been a very popular girl, because she simply is so friendly and likeable, but once she started pursuing fame, that would've all fallen apart. In fact, she very probably would've been perceived as a 'snob' by her usual friends and a 'try-hard' by the so-called "intellectuals" she tried to join. And I think both camps would've resented her success._

_Given that she would be received as a smarty pants upstart tramp, as unfortunately women who are both intelligent and beautiful still are, at the asylum, as well as being all too aware herself that she might be revealed as not entirely there on her own merits, there wouldn't be anyone really there she could confide in without betraying herself._

_Except for Joker._

_Harley strikes me as someone who will ultimately Do What She Needs To To Get What She Wants, and that includes her seduction of her professors. I'm sick of it being either excused or twisted around so that she was totally innocent or desperate to do it, or treated like some incredibly evil thing. It's none of those. She did it because she failed and she wasn't going to accept that. Simple as that. Maybe she could've got the grades if she'd worked harder. She's a smart cookie, in her way. Or maybe there's another reason - after all, it's only Batman who says she didn't study. He wasn't actually there, observing the way she spent her nights. Maybe she studied her brains out, every night, but didn't "get it". I've speculated that she might be dyslexic and caught up in socialising. Someone else posited that a professor had a grudge against her. Whatever the reason, she failed. And when she did, she did what it took to get the grades. I respect that._

_Oh yes - and Harley makes a lot of mistakes in session. That's deliberate. How else do you think he managed to get such a hold on her? She was in no way prepared for him. Those Arkham doctors must've been crazy or desperate to let her in there with him… maybe both. _

_If you're cross at me cos there was no sexual pay-off – sorry. :) The honest truth is I just don't think Joker needs/wants sex the same way most of us do, most of the time. I think he has his moments, but on the whole everything is about power to him, and what he feels will give him greater power over Harley right now is her frustrated desire for him. But also remembering Joker is a creature of self-gratification, I think he finds the tease far more erotic and titillating than actually doing it would be. I don't think he particularly feels a need to reach the ejaculation point of sex (not that he doesn't enjoy it when he gets there…) and I certainly can't envision him masturbating. He's a weird, pansexual sort of guy, our Mistah J._

_Remembering that this story is set in the mainstream universe, it is after Joker and Harley have sex for what I believe was the first time in Batman: Harley Quinn, that he immediately tries to kill her. Why? Because he realises that he cares about her and it makes him uncomfortable. The sex, along with her defeating Batman, was the catalyst there – where he suddenly questions his power. If you are keen to read Joker/Harley first time sex, then I will be more than happy to link you to my story on the subject, which fits into the mainstream canon. Just drop me a note with your email and I'll send you the link. Alternatively, click onto my profile, scroll down to the BATMAN header and look for the link to my smut fic. It's the story 'First Time'. It's NC-17 and as smutty as smut fic can get. _

_If you know my work, you know I'm a devoted Joker/Harley shipper and I believe Joker loves her. However, at the end of this story, I don't think he does quite yet. That comes later, after she joins him in No Man's Land, when he sees truly how far she'll go for him. But he is somewhat fond of her by the end, as far as he can be. _

_If you're wondering about the 'earthquake' - in the mainstream comics, Gotham City was wracked by an incredibly debilitating earthquake. It was during the aftermath - No Man's Land - that Harley made her first appearance in _Batman: Harley Quinn, _which briefly recaps the basics of this story - she was his therapist, he seduced her, she started helping him escape and then she was caught and committed. _

_Finally, thank you to every single reader who has stuck with me through this story, whether you reviewed or not. Your support has been absolutely overwhelming and utterly delightful and I'm so very grateful to all of you, your feedback and comments, your praise and criticisms and your extremely interesting ideas and observations. I'm delighted if anyone has found themselves newly interested in this pairing through this story, or if any devoted shipper has found more joy in the pairing through this story. I'm always interested to hear from you, so feel free to get in touch with me anytime. _


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